That's Just The Way It Is
by Maxie Kay
Summary: An injured Deeks reflects on his relationship with Kensi. His working relationship, that is. Because that's all it is - isn't it?
1. Chapter 1

**That's Just the Way It Is**

An NCIS: Los Angeles Story

By

Maxie Kay

_A companion-piece to my story: __**The Secret Journal of Kensi Blye.  
><strong>Because it only seems fair that we learn how Deeks feels about things. And right now, he's not feeling too good.  
><em>

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><p>Any day that starts with the sun shining and a wicked swell on the ocean is a good day in my book. And when you get both of these, plus you wake up with a gorgeous woman in your bed, one who makes your toes curl up just by looking at her, well that's possibly the recipe for the best day ever. Sun, sea, surfing and sex – not necessarily in that order – who could ask for anything more? It was just a pity that at least two of the above were currently on the forbidden-list, as laid down by none other Henrietta Lang, who is more commonly known to her minions as Hetty. I am the most recent and therefore least significant of said minions and even though Kensi swears blind that Hetty has a soft spot for me, I'm not about to chance anything. Kensi is my partner, and she's also the beautiful woman sleeping in my spare bed. So this was not only <span>not<span> the best day of my life, it was so far removed from it as to be untrue.

Okay, I've started in the middle and this is probably confusing. That's kind of the story of my life. My name is Marty Deeks, Detective Marty Deeks actually, of none-other than the LAPD, although I'm currently on semi-permanent secondment, working as the liaison to the NCIS Office of Special Projects here in LA. OSP, as it is snappily known (have you ever met a federal agency that did not rejoice in acronyms?) is run by Hetty, who is like a cross between some miniature ninja and one of those eastern deities that is all-seeing, all-powerful and just a little bit warped. I think of her as 'She Who Must Be Obeyed'. And I try not to think about Kensi too much, because that's the quick way to go mad, by thinking of all the things that Kensi is and then all the things she isn't. The first of these being that she isn't here in my bed with me. But we won't go there. I do wish she'd come here, come to me, though. Only I know that's not going to happen. That will never happen because Kensi is my partner. That's all she is and she makes it very clear that's all she ever will be.

Anyway, since the 'incident', Kensi and Hetty have launched into ultra-protective mode and are basically keeping me under 24-hour house arrest. That might be a slight exaggeration – I'm not actually under armed guard, or even protective custody: it just feels like I am. They've even managed to turn my dog over to their side. If I so much as look at the front door, Monty gives this low growl in his throat. My own dog has turned traitor on me.

Women. Why can't they believe you when you say you're fine? It's not as if I was really hurt after all. And even if I was a bit bashed up, I'm fine now. Or I will be, once this wound in my leg heals up a bit more. There is absolutely no need for Hetty and Kensi to make such a fuss, even if I was unconscious for about a day. Clearly I was tired and needed my sleep. They keep telling me how worried they were and what a fright I gave them. Newsflash: I didn't do it on purpose, okay? I didn't ask to get shot or to hit my head hard enough to get a pretty decent concussion. These things just happen, especially in our line of work. And anyway, if they were so all-fired worried, why were they both leaning over me when I woke up? That's enough to give anybody a heart-attack. And if Kensi was so worried, why did she immediately start eating my Jell-O? Most people lose their appetite when they're worried. But Kensi isn't most people. Kensi is… well, Kensi is amazing. If I had to choose just one word to describe Kensi, then I guess it would be 'amazing'. I don't think she knows just how incredible she is, or how incredible I think she is. It's probably safest that it stays that way.

So, here I am, staring out of the window of my apartment, knowing that Kensi is sleeping in my spare room and I'm going half-mad with boredom and frustration. Plus, we're nearly out of coffee, which is bringing this morning down to the category of 'really sucks big time'. Correction: I am nearly out of coffee. There is no 'we' – except when we're working a case together. There is no 'Kensi and Deeks' outside of work, even if I have heard people talk about us as 'Densi' when they think I can't hear. God help them if Kensi ever learns about that, because she will tear them limb from limb. She will do that slowly and with great relish. Kensi is quite scary when she goes into full-on attack mode. She is even more scary when she is acting as part-nurse, part watchdog. I'm scared of her. No – I'm scared for her, and that's the truth. I'm scared that one of these days she's going to get herself killed because she is so headstrong, so fearless, so utterly convinced she is bullet-proof. Kensi is one hell of a woman and she's an incredible partner. I've never worked with anyone quite like her, but that is probably because there is no-one quite like Kensi.

Getting shot sucks. It also hurts one hell of a lot. Take my word for it, and don't bother to find out on your own account. You'll thank me for that. Getting shot is also kind of messy. When I was finally released from the hospital, we drove past the crime scene and you could still see the stains on the sidewalk where I'd bled all over the place. Of course, it doesn't rain a whole lot here in LA, but you would have thought someone could at least have thrown a bucket of water over the evidence of my near-demise. It kind of gave me the creeps to see that bloodstain, if you really want to know. It was so big and for the first time I realized that things had been pretty bad. Maybe Kensi and Hetty had a point and there was actually a reason for them being so worried about me? Not that I would ever admit that, of course. I guess I must have gone kind of pale, because Hetty reached out and took hold of my hand.

"You're still here. And you will be fine."

When Hetty speaks in that low voice, full of absolute certainty, you have no choice but to believe her. She has what you might call a 'forceful personality'. She also knows just about everyone who is worth knowing (and I mean the really powerful people – the ones who actually run countries behind the scenes) and she's done everything, been everywhere and what's more she is still alive to tell the tale in a dozen different languages, so I guess I should believe her. For once, Kensi didn't say anything; she just kind of clenched her jaw and concentrated on driving. That was unusual, because Kensi usually likes to tell me what to do. You might call her bossy, but I wouldn't dare. So I just call her Kensi instead. Or 'Fern', if I really want to annoy her. Today I couldn't even summon up the energy to do that. I just wanted to lean my head back, close my eyes and wish for this whole journey to be over before the throbbing in my leg increased to the point where I couldn't stand it any longer without some really good pain pills, the ones that pretty much knock you out.

The thing is, it's not really safe to lose concentration or take your eyes off the road when Kensi's driving. I swear that Kensi probably learned how to drive on a video-game and she still hasn't quite grasped the fact that you don't have to be quite so aggressive when you're on real roads. Mind you, if you've ever suffered through the LA rush hour, Kensi's driving techniques actually seem quite tame by comparison. Except that today she was driving really carefully, almost cautiously.

So there we were in the car, me and Hetty sitting in the back seat, on account of the fact I need to keep my leg straight because of that brace, and Kensi driving like a normal person, rather than Hitler invading Poland. And they were telling me how I had to rest and take things easy. Now, if you've ever spent any time in hospital, you'll know that all that lying around makes you kind of exhausted. It's hard work being sick, you know? Not to mention the fact I'd obviously spilt at least a couple of pints of blood onto the sidewalk back there. Being sick really takes it out of you. So I was just wishing they'd drop me off at my apartment and that I could crawl into bed and sleep for a couple of days and just forget about everything that had happened: forget about all the pain, and the sheer terror of feeling that bullet hit me, falling down and thinking I was going to die, right up to the moment when I heard another shot and then Kensi was kneeling beside me, telling me I was going to be fine. I might even have believed her, all other evidence to the contrary, if only she hadn't ruined everything by telling me not to dare die on her. Of course, that was kind of a smart move on her part, because I've learned that you don't argue with Kensi when she's mad. And you certainly don't even think about disobeying her when she is not only mad, but crying. Mind you, I was kind of out of it at that point, so maybe I imagined the tears. That's the most likely explanation, isn't it?

It didn't matter what I wanted of course, seeing as how Kensi and Hetty had other plans. Now, those plans that concerned me, but of course I wasn't allowed any say in the matter. They had made up their minds and that was all there was to it. Now, it didn't help that I was too tired to put up much of a protest or that by the time I'd finally staggered up the last flight of stairs I was just about ready to drop down onto the floor in a quivering heap and weep from exhaustion, pain and sheer misery. Living in a fourth floor apartment means you have great views, but it totally sucks getting up there when you have one leg out of commission. Next time I move, I'm either getting a ground floor apartment or moving to somewhere with an elevator.

Monty knew something was up: I could tell that from the way he came up to me real quietly, with his ears back and his tail tucked between his legs. Monty looks kind of dejected at the best of time, but that day he just looked plain miserable.

"Your daddy's back home," Kensi said, and then pushed the door open a bit wider so that I could maneuver through with my crutches and Monty gave this sort of subdued whimper and then stuck his cold nose into my hand. I started to pet him and as I did so, I realised how much I'd missed him.

"Hey, Monty." I just stood there, and wondered how on earth I was going to walk one single step further without collapsing. My leg felt like it was on fire, my head hurt and the crutches were digging into my arm pits, with the result that I just stood there like some idiot. Monty just looked at me, and then sat down by my side, his tail wagging in a tentative manner, like he was trying to work out what was going on.

"I've been looking after him," Kensi continued and there was something about the way she said that and the pregnant pause that followed that made my heart sink, because I knew exactly what was coming next.

"And Ms Blye has kindly offered to stay for a few days and look after you," Hetty said in a suspiciously bright tone of voice. The words 'isn't that lovely?' hung in the air.

No. It wasn't lovely. It wasn't lovely at all. What it was nothing more than cruelty to dumb animals. Or even dumb Deeks's. And boy, was I dumb thinking I could change their minds. You'd have more luck getting George W Bush into MENSA. "You don't need to. I'm fine." I managed to shuffle forward a couple of steps. It was a less than impressive effort – even I could tell that. Not my finest hour, and that's the truth.

"You are not fine, Deeks," Kensi said in the kind of voice that means there is no further discussion to be had and the subject is closed. Excuse me? This is my life and I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. Okay, maybe that is a slight exaggeration. But I'm fine – or I will be. Once I've slept for a week and thrown back some of those pain pills. All I need is for someone to take Monty out for his walks.

"If you prefer, you could stay with Mr Hannah?" Hetty said smoothly. "It's just a pity that his daughter has mumps, but perhaps you wouldn't mind that?"

I had kind of been wondering where the big guy had been hiding out, seeing as how he's been conspicuous by his absence when it came to visiting me. Mumps. Now there's something you don't want to get. I've heard that it can make your junk swell up and have lasting consequences, if you get my drift. Right now I've got enough on my plate without adding anything else, thank you very much.

"I'm fine. I don't need anybody to look after me." I figure I've got to put up at least a token protest, but it is two against one, and when those two are strong, confident (make that indomitable) women and the one is this guy who can barely stand up, defeat is inevitable.

"Yes, you do. And the fact that you can't see that just shows how sick you still are." Kensi put her hands on her hips and glared at me. "You are not fine. You look like shit, Deeks. Now get that ass of yours into bed."

She's got a way with words, has Kensi. Even if her timing leaves a lot to be desired. Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear her say that? You've got to love Kensi's timing. If I didn't feel quite so crap, I might just burst out laughing. As it is, I feel more like weeping with frustration. Of all the times, Kensi has to pick right now – when Hetty is standing there watching us and I feel like a hen that's been left out in the rain? Do you know how many times I've thought about us getting together? Too many, and in far too much detail. Only right now I don't think I could do anything, even if I wanted to. That's when I know I'm kind of sick still – the fact that I can look at Kensi, feel her arm around her waist and hear her talking about helping me through to the bedroom and I'm not even thinking about sex. I think maybe I was hurt pretty badly if it's come to this. Either that or the bullet did more damage than they've told me about.

So, here's a quick recap: I've been shot, lost a lot of blood, hit my head so hard I was out for the count and had what they call a 'bad reaction' to the anaesthetic (translation: I threw up a lot and I still don't feel much like eating). Currently I've got one leg out of commission, thanks to a bullet that missed shattering my thigh bone by about half an inch, but did manage to nick an artery. Now, just to complete the picture of this circle of hell I call my life, I've got Hetty and Kensi bossing me about in my own home. My sex drive has disappeared completely and even my dog is looking confused. And that's just the way it is.

My name is Marty Deeks and it might be a beautiful day, but my life sucks, and that's a fact. Things can only get better, right?

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><p><em>Just for a change, I thought i'd start with maimed-Deeks.<em>  
><em>Now, regular readers might be scratching their heads at that statement, as I have a slight reputation for being rather fond of maiming Deeks. I would just like to point out that I normally do not maim Deeks right at the start, therefore this constitutes a complete change. Nobody could ever accuse me of being predictable, could they?<em>


	2. Chapter 2

My name is Marty Deeks and it might be a beautiful day, but my life sucks, and that's a fact. Things can only get better, right?

Well, no – not really. Not at all, in fact. Things did not get better. In fact, they got a whole lot worse. But I'm getting ahead of myself again, because there I was, moving with all the grace and agility of a snail on crack cocaine, just praying I've got enough strength to make it across the room and into my bed. Does Kensi give me peace and quiet? Does she heck.

"Not so fast." I'd almost made it to my destination, when that imperious voice stops me dead in my tracks. I kind of let my weight hang off my crutches, which were planted firmly in the carpet.

"Where do you think you're going?"

You don't argue when Kensi uses that tone of voice. You might try, but essentially it's going to be futile. Anyway, right then I just didn't have the energy. I was barely managing to stay upright and my bad leg was kind of swinging helplessly in the air.

"Uh – bed?" I ventured. Oh, the times I've dreamt about me and Kensi here together in my bedroom. This is so not how I thought it would be. Life, eh? First it knocks you down, then it tramples all over you.

"You might just want to go to the bathroom first." She tries not to sound smug about this and to give her credit, she almost succeeds.

Kensi has a point. She has a very good point indeed. Once I'm in bed, I don't plan on getting up for at least 12 hours. And getting up and then getting going isn't as quick or easy as it sounds when you have one leg out of action and are dependent on crutches. So I manage to turn around and then shuffle off to the bathroom for what turns out to be a fairly lengthy pee. I'm kind of relieved to see that the catheter they insisted on putting in at the hospital hasn't done any lasting damage. At least I'm alone for once. My female guardians have been hovering rather too closely for comfort and I would not have put it past either of them to stand in the doorway just to make sure I'm managing. I reckon I may as well brush my teeth while I'm in here, and nearly collapse with shock when I see my reflection in the mirror. I look as if I've just crawled out of my grave. No wonder Kensi and Hetty are fussing around after me.

"You took your time." Kensi is almost tapping her foot with impatience when I finally emerge. Forgive me for being so slow, on account of the fact I'm injured – or hadn't you noticed?

"And you're still here," I counter. God, I am so tired I could just collapse. Can't she just leave me in peace?

She glares at me. "I don't know why I even bother. But just for your information, I wanted to make sure you were okay – like you hadn't got dizzy, or collapsed – or anything like that."

And she does look worried, I can see that. For the first time I can see how tense Kensi looks. I'm causing her a lot of trouble. But it's not as if I asked her to come to here, or to hover over me. "Sorry." I sound kind of ungracious, but right now I am so tired that I can hardly think.

"Sit down before you fall down."

That's a very good idea and it's getting no arguments from me. Sitting down is kind of an art form when you've got a leg brace that locks your knee into position, not to mention a pair of crutches to add into the equation, but I manage to lower myself gingerly down onto the bed. The next thing I know, Kensi is kneeling down beside me and taking my shoes and socks off and I just feel this surge of gratefulness. That is Kensi all over – one moment she's riding me, giving me a hard time and then the next she's doing something like this. And it's nothing, I know it means nothing, because I know she would do the same for Sam, or Callen, or even Hetty, but still… Seeing Kensi doing this makes me feel… confused.

Kensi confuses me and that's the truth. I never quite know where I am with her. I know where I would like to be with her, but somehow I don't think I'm ever going to get there. Kensi Blye is incredible, and that's a fact. She's tall and slim and has the most amazing body. Now, I know I can be shallow (Kensi has mentioned that I've got all the emotional depth and maturity of a goldfish pond), but I'm not just talking about the way Kensi looks – I'm talking about the things she can do with her body. That woman is seriously fit and flexible, plus she can more than hold her own in a fight. Her body is slim, but it's strong and powerful, but graceful at the same time. And her breasts are fantastic. She could get her own billboard. I wish she would. It would brighten up my morning commute, I can tell you. Mind you, it might also make me crash my car. And when she dresses up, Kensi could hold her own with any super-model. But I think I like her best when she's just wearing ordinary clothes. Not that anything looks ordinary when Kensi's wearing it. You should see how good Kensi looks in just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She looks so good that she makes my mouth water, especially when that long, dark hair is just left to fall down her back. Kensi has a wicked smile that makes me wonder about what her lips must taste like, and as for her eyes – nobody has eyes like Kensi. They are dark and mysterious, and they are mismatched, so that they could be saying anything – or nothing. She's intriguing – that's probably the best way to describe Kensi. Intriguing and exciting. She excites me, that's for sure. But the main thing about Kensi, the most important thing, the thing I can never forget, is this: she is my partner. And there are rules about things like that. Sure, those rules are unwritten, but we all know about them, because they colour everything we do. You do not go there with your partner. No matter how much you might want to. Because you're going to risk ruining everything.

Which is why it kind of takes me by surprise when the next thing I know is that Kensi is swinging my legs up onto the bed and then starting to undo the Velcro straps on my leg-brace. This is getting awful personal, awful fast.

"Kensi?" Please stop this. You're killing me here.

"Deeks?" She slides the brace gently away. Who knew Kensi could be so tender and thoughtful?

"What are you doing?" I know I'm going to be powerless to resist. And I also know that I'm not going to be able to do anything (and I mean anything) even if I want to. Which I do. It's just that for once my body is definitely not going to obey me. This must be the worst timing ever. Here I am, lying prone on my bed, with a gorgeous woman bending over me – and what I really want is just to be left alone to sleep. There is no justice in the world: none at all. Just kill me now, because if my sex drive is gone, what point is there in living?

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She smiles sweetly. "Get real, Deeks. I'm helping you get ready for bed. Okay? Don't make anything weird out of this."

She's got a point. I don't really want to sleep in my jeans. But, dear God in heaven, this is embarrassing. Actually, it's mortifying. I don't have to make anything weird out of this, for the simple reason that it is weird.

"I can manage the rest." I'm pretty sure I'm blushing, like some stupid teenager. This could be a really great fantasy, it could even be the opening scenes of an adult movie, but the reality is that I'm so tired, I'm in pain and generally I feel like crap and for once I can look at my partner, look right down the front of her v-neck t-shirt and feel absolutely nothing except for the fact that right now I've got virtually no dignity left.

"I know you can." She flashes me a smile, but somehow she manages to look kind of sad at the same time and then she walks into the bathroom, leaving me to struggle out of my jeans and shirt. 'Tactful' and 'Kensi' are not normally two words I would put together in the same sentence, but that just shows you what I know. I'm seeing a whole new side of my partner today and it's kind of confusing. By the time she comes out again, I've managed to put the brace back on and get safely under the covers.

"You look like shit, Deeks," my partner says lovingly and then sits down on the bed.

"Thanks. I love you too."

Kensi leans forward, so that her face is in extreme close-up. "Listen up, Deeks – and listen good. You gave me one hell of a fright and nobody does that to me, understand? Nobody. Especially not you. So don't do it again. Ever." Wow, she's fierce. What did I do that's pissed her off so much?

"Got it." I've not got much of a choice in the matter, it seems. Why does this have to be happening now?

"And just look at you – you're so weak that just getting undressed and into bed has taken it out of you."

That was true. Kensi had a good point, given that I was shaking and I was pretty sure I was sweating too. Mulcho attractive, no?

"So for once in your life, just swallow that stubborn pride and let me look after you. Alright? Because I've earned the right to be worried about you."

God, I love strong women who lay down the law. And Kensi is something else when she's being fierce. Under other circumstances, this could be a really hot moment. If this was a chick-flick, it's at this point that Kensi would fall forward sobbing onto my bare chest, confess her undying love and then I would stroke her hair gently before she raises her head, our eyes meet and we kiss. Usually as an old song starts to play in the background. And then we'd make wild, passionate love – in soft focus and done very tastefully. Not that I ever watch that sort of movie, of course. Not out of choice, anyway. It's just that so many women think they are ideal date-night fodder. However, this is real life and not a movie. I am not on a date and Kensi is not about to kiss me. Most definitely of all, we are not going to make love. I know that, so I just give her a weak smile and kind of huddle down under the covers.

"Okay."

Kensi gives me the strangest look. "Okay? Now I know you're really sick. The day you just agree with me without debating the matter is the day we should get you measured for your coffin."

It's probably not the right time to tell her I kind of fancy cryogenic suspension. Or maybe sky-burial, like the Tibetans. She'd just think that was weird. And anyway, it's not really practical in LA, given the lack of vultures.

"I'm too tired to argue, Kensi." Bad move. That sounded pathetic and weak. That's a rule, you know – never let them see you are weaker than they are. Or is that when you're surrounded by wolves or bears or something like that?

"Tell me something I don't know." She stands up. "How about I get you some pain pills and then you can sleep some?"

Now that sounds like nirvana. Not the group, the state of blissful ecstasy. Obviously. Although Nirvana (as in the group) are pretty cool. Again: obviously. It's just that Kensi confuses me. And that goes way beyond the normal state of perplexity that females automatically engender in men, in that we are pretty much clueless when it comes to even beginning to understand how their minds work. No, you see with Kensi it's more that I always have this sense that something might be about to happen – only it never does. There are days when I think she's positively inviting me to make a move and then there are days when she is almost pushing me away. And then there are days like today, when she's sitting on my bed and I just want her to go away and leave me to die peacefully. Is it any wonder that I'm confused?

"Sleep sounds good. I don't think I need any pills right now." Right now I'm so tired that I can hardly keep my eyes open.

"Deeks!" Her voice is so loud that my eyes fly open. "Didn't I just tell you to stop being so stubborn? Take the damn tablets."

The bed moves as she gets up and I know that resistance is futile. She's really pissed with me now, and Kensi pissed is not something you want to see, far less argue with. Besides which, I'm at a distinct disadvantage here, given I'm wearing only my boxers. It's hard to keep any degree of dignity when your partner's had to help you undress, especially when you've idly mulled over the intriguing possibility (under completely different circumstances, given that mutual disrobing was normally what I considered) a hundred times or more. Just because Kensi is my partner doesn't mean to say I can't think about other possibilities, does it? I'm a man after all, not some plaster cast reproduction of a saint.

"Ms Blye says you are to take these." Hetty is standing at the side of the bed and she's holding out three tablets and a glass of water. "I wouldn't argue with her, if I were you."

I wouldn't argue with Hetty either. I tried a couple of times, but I think I got away with it. Just. There's no sense in pushing my luck though.

"Thanks." Clearly, it is two against one, so I just swallow the damn pills.

"You did give us all somewhat of a fright, you know." Hetty gives me the strangest look.

"I gave myself a fright." Why does everyone keep going on as if I got myself shot on purpose, just to annoy them or cause maximum disruption to their lives? I'm the one who got injured, remember? It was not a choice – it just happened. Given the choice, I'd really rather not get shot, if it's all the same. Anyway, getting injured is kind of an occupational hazard and you would think they'd be used to it by now. I just don't understand why everyone is making such a fuss.

Hetty just continues as if I've not spoken. I've noticed there's a lot of people who do this when I speak – particularly Sam. That's pretty rude, not to mention the fact they are missing the pearls of wit and wisdom I often utter. Still, it's their loss. "We were all rather concerned."

Don't you love that? A brilliant example of what I like to call 'Hetty-isms'. Hetty would never admit to being concerned – just 'rather' concerned, almost as if I'd inconvenienced everyone.

"I'll try not to get shot again, okay?"

"We were worried about you, Mr Deeks." Hetty clasps her hands together. "We want to help. Please allow us that one small latitude."

Clearly the pills are starting to kick in, because I've no idea what she is talking about, so I just lean back against the pillows and look confused. Sometimes this is the only option left open to you, especially when you are dealing with women.

Hetty takes pity on me. "Let us care about you, Mr Deeks. Let us look after you, because that is what we need to do."

There's something wrong about that last sentence. Isn't it me who needs to be looked after, rather than making it sound like I'm doing them a favour? And 'care' is such an ambiguous word – it doesn't really say anything. Does Kensi care about me? And if she does, what does that mean? Is it because I'm her partner, or is there something else? Does Kensi care because she has to or because she wants to? But this is too confusing and my head is starting to swim, so it's easier not to say anything but rather to just let Hetty rearrange the pillows as I slide carefully down the bed and pull the covers up over my shoulder.

"Goodnight, my dear." I hear a door closing and then the world fades to black.

Why does life have to be so complicated all the time? And why does getting shot have to hurt quite so much? And what kind of pain pills are these, because they are fabulous? I must ask for them next time I get injured.

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><p><em>Let's put the fact that Deeks is being so dim because he's in pain, shall we?<em>


	3. Chapter 3

Whatever those pills were, they were great. I must remember to go back to that hospital next time I'm injured. They worked so well that I slept for the rest of the morning and all of the afternoon. It wasn't the twelve hours I'd promise myself, but in a lot of ways it was like the lost weekends I used to have at college, except that this time the drugs were legal. Well, there have to some perks to this job, don't there? When I finally surfaced it was to find that warm, amber light the movie people call 'golden time' was filtering through the windows, which meant it was early evening. And that meant one thing: Monty would be wanting his dinner. He's a creature of habit, is Monty, and he likes his routine. So I dragged myself out of bed and hobbled slowly across the room, only to nearly die of shock when I opened the door. When you're used to either living alone or waking up with your new friend in bed beside you, you just don't expect to

"Where do you think you're going?" Kensi was standing directly in front of me, blocking my passage and she did not look happy. It's a good thing I've got quick reactions, even when I am still drugged-up to my eyeballs, because I just managed to stop my forward momentum. Otherwise Kensi would have got the tip of one of the crutches on her foot, and then she really would have had a reason to look so unhappy.

"To feed Monty?" I ventured, wondering how come Kensi has this unique ability to make me feel about twelve again. A small, grubby twelve year old at that. How come she can do this to me - and in my own house to boot?

"Already taken care of. He had some liver I found in your fridge." She looked really pleased with herself.

That would be the premium grade calves liver I'd ordered in especially at the French delicatessen. Liver is high in iron and protein, and it's very lean too. It just happens to be one of my favourite foods. It is also exorbitantly expensive. Monty seemed to have enjoyed it, judging by the way he was licking his furry chops. I'd had plans for that liver and they did not involve it going down my pooch's gullet. But Kensi wasn't to know that. Her idea of cooking is to put something in the microwave and hope it doesn't explode. "Great. How did you cook it?"

Kensi looked at me like I was mad. "Cook it? Deeks – he's a dog. And I'm not a gourmet chef. I just opened the packet and put it in his dish."

Oh well, she's the one who's going to be walking him for the next couple of days, so she can deal with picking up the aftermath of a pound of raw liver up from the sidewalk. And then I can get to deal with the vet's bills we run up when Monty develops worms. Great. As if I didn't have enough to worry about.

"Go back to bed." She crosses her arms and eyeballs me

That reminds me of Janice Thomson, who used to babysit for me. That's exactly what she used to say too, and in exactly the same voice, only that was usually because she was necking with Brad Vine on the sofa when I interrupted them. I learned an awful lot from Janice and Brad, because even though I was only a kid, I learned to wait until the action got really exciting before I made my presence known.

"I've been in bed all day. I'm bored." And that just shows you how far I've fallen. There are women across LA who would fall down in a dead faint if they heard that Marty Deeks had been commanded to go to bed by a woman, and had refused to obey. I couldn't quite believe it myself, if you want the truth.

Kensi's face kind of softened when I said that. I must remember to never underestimate the power of being vulnerable and boyish. If it works on Kensi, it'll work on anyone. Well, maybe not Hetty. And definitely not Sam. But I don't fancy either of them, so it doesn't really matter. I don't really fancy Kensi either. It's more of an unrequited lust type of thing. Or wanting the one thing I know I can't have. Whatever it is, it's kind of frustrating.

"You can stay up – but on two conditions."

I seem to have heard the first part of that statement more than once before, only the circumstances were usually completely different. "Oh?"

"One: you put on some more clothes."

That was the reverse of what I normally hear. Okay, Kensi had a point, seeing as I was standing there in my boxers and nothing else. I did a quick check, but for once the fly wasn't gaping open. "I can do that. And?" There had to be a catch somewhere along the line.

"And two: you have to eat something. You've gotten far too skinny." Just for emphasis, Kensi poked me in my stomach. I told you Kensi was strong, didn't I? Well, that little poke just about sent my flying and she had to grab me round the waist to stop me falling as the crutches went every which way.

"Deeks. I'm so sorry." She sounded completely mortified.

Well, I've been in worse situations, I suppose. Being tackled and then groped by a gorgeous woman isn't that bad. I let Kensi help me over to the couch and then she disappeared back into my bedroom, where a disembodied voice came floating out.

"Where's your robe?"

"I don't have one."

Kensi's head appeared around the door. "How can you not have a robe? No, don't bother to answer that."

No wonder I'm in a permanent state of confusion when she asks me a question and tell me not to bother answering. I'm never going to win, am I? What am I supposed to make of that? And why would I need a robe in the first place? There's only me and Monty live here, and he doesn't care. And any overnight guests I have seem to prefer me without a robe. They seem to prefer me without any clothes at all, if you really want to know. When she comes back out, Kensi is carrying a hoodie and a pair of thick socks. While I pull the hoodie on, she kneels down and puts the socks on, taking a lot of care to make sure they're on properly. I kind of like that. It's kind of cute. This is probably not the best look I've ever modeled, but I don't exactly care.

"So – what do you want to eat?" I can't help noticing that Kensi is kind of pink in the face: must be because she was bending over.

"Anything but Jell-O."

"What's wrong with Jell-O?"

My partner has a bit of a thing for Jell-O. I could almost swear Kensi only visits me in hospital to get free Jell-O. She comes in, sits down and then grabs my Jell-O. That's not normal, is it? She's like some sort of Jell-O addict. I wonder if they have a 12 Step programme she could go to and get some help? The only good thing about Jell-O is when they use it in those wrestling competitions. You know – the ones with the girls in the bikinis? Jell-O shots are pretty good too. Actually, watching girls wrestle in Jell-O and knocking back some Jell-O shots would probably be kind of epic. But apart from that, I hate Jell-O. It's like fruit flavoured snot. And artificial fruit flavours into the bargain.

"For starters, it comes in unnatural colours," I tell her. It doesn't seem to register, because Kensi thinks Jell-O is the food of the gods and has all sorts of healing properties.

"It's good for you. That's why you get it in hospital."

"Kensi – you get lots of things that aren't good for you in hospital. Like C-dif. Or MRSA."

Knowing my almost legendary hatred for the stuff, Kensi gives in gracefully. If only I kept a journal, I'd mark this day in red. "Okay, so Jell-O's out. How about eggs?"

Eggs sound good. Or maybe egg singular. I'm not really that hungry and besides which, Kensi isn't the greatest cook. But even Kensi can't do much to ruin an egg. Can she?

* * *

><p>If you overlook the occasional bits of eggshell, Kensi's scrambled eggs aren't too bad. I manage about half the plateful, and she gives me a rueful look.<p>

"It was great. Really. I'm just not very hungry."

That's the truth. Besides which, Kensi's going out of her way to look after me. I keep thinking about what Hetty said: about how they all needed to look after me. I still can't work out what she meant by that, because the way I see it, I'm putting everyone to a lot of trouble here. Kensi especially. She's really putting herself out and I feel kind of bad about it. No, actually I feel as guilty as hell. I'm not the greatest of company right now and besides which, that liver is giving Monty terrible gas. But if I'm feeling sorry for myself, I'm feeling a whole lot sorrier for Kensi, who's stuck here with a gimpy guy and a flatulent dog.

"You don't have to stay, you know? You could go home."

"Are you trying to get rid of me, Deeks?"

"No, of course not. It's just that…" It's just that I'm kind of ruining everything for her. Kensi could be out somewhere and having fun, instead of being stuck here with me in my wooly socks.

"You don't want me here, do you?" And know I feel a whole lot worse, because Kensi actually sounds sad.

Under other circumstances, the prospect of snuggling up with Kensi wearing just my boxers would be pretty much my ideal night. The socks kind of ruin the image though. Not to mention the leg brace, although I believe that turns some people on. Whatever floats your boat.

"It's not that. It's just that I really am okay. I can manage."

Kensi turns around and her eyes are huge and angry. "Listen Deeks: you are not fine. I'm telling you that you are not fine, so just believe me. And I'm staying and that's an end of this discussion. Okay?"

Well, that's the end of that conversation. She's got me again. Just like she usually does. Kensi knows just which buttons to hit. And right now she's got me at a physical disadvantage, having already had a technical knock-down. "Okay. So – do you want to watch a movie?" It's the best I can do under the circumstances.

Monty lets rip again and Kensi gets up with a sigh. "You choose. I'll just take farty-pants out for a walk."

Sometimes that dog has the best timing. "How about you open a window on the way out?"

Kensi does better than that – she lights this candle and puts it on the table in front of me. "It's lavender," she says. "It's supposed to be healing." And then she snaps on Monty's lead and goes out.

Since when did I have a scented candle? I don't ever remember buying candles. Far less scented ones. It does smell kind of nice though – sort of relaxing. I lean my head back and close my eyes, just for a second. The next thing I know, there is the smell of chocolate wafting temptingly underneath my nose.

"Hot chocolate." Kensi is standing there with two mugs and there's a plate of Oreo cookies on the table, sitting next to that candle I don't remember buying.

"You've been to the grocery store, haven't you?" I know this because I don't have any hot chocolate powder and I certainly don't have any mini marshmallows.

"How can you have a movie night and not have snacks? Healthy snacks. And before you say anything, hot chocolate's made with milk. And milk is good for you."

And so is Kensi. Kensi is really good for me. In fact, she's probably the best thing that has ever happened to me. She takes the throw that lies along the back of my sofa and she drapes it across both of us as we sit there watching movies, drinking our hot chocolate and eating Oreo cookies. I haven't done this since I was a kid and it's actually kind of great. And when Kensi leans her head on my shoulder, it's pretty close to amazing.

So, that was how I spent my first night alone in my apartment with Kensi. Chastely close. My reputation is never going to be the same again. And that's just fine with me. For the moment.

* * *

><p><em>Do you think Deeks is going to realise something anytime soon? And how long can Kensi hold out? before she cracks?<em>


	4. Chapter 4

I could get used to Kensi being around here permanently, I really could. You can't beat being brought your morning coffee in bed after all, especially when it's brought in by a great looking woman, who is glowing with health.

"I went for a run," she says and I try very hard not to feel envious. I love my morning runs: that's the time when I can get my head together, just concentrating on running and seeing the beach stretch out before me, the ocean glimmering seductively to one side and knowing my body is going to do just about anything I ask of it as I settle down into the rhythm and let my thoughts float freely. Correction: I used to love running. At the moment I'd settle for just being able to walk without crutches and the accompanying pain. Right now I'm this shambling, shuffling parody of my former self and I feel about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

"Great." I take a sip of my coffee, and it's just the way I like it, so that I get the caffeine hit immediately. It's from my favourite coffee shop too. "How did you know to go to _Grind It Down_?" It is off-the main drag after all, and I have to do an extra loop on the days I go there. I learned my lesson a year or so back and make sure I change my routine daily. I don't want to get Sam on my back again. Once was bad enough. It was almost worse than getting shot. I know Kensi says that Sam only rode me so hard because he loves me, but there is tough love and then there is tough love, Sam Hanna style. Which is the Marine assault course version of tough, in that if it doesn't kill you it will make you stronger.

"Oh, Monty showed me," Kensi says airily. Sure enough, my traitorous dog is sitting at her side, looking up at her adoringly.

"Just for a handful of liver you left me*," I misquote, but it's lost on both of them. Now, I thought that was pretty clever but I should save my talent for a more appreciative audience, like Hetty for example. I just hope that's not tempting fate or anything. The last thing I can cope with right now is Hetty turning up again.

"Yeah, right." Kensi looks at me curiously. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Just peachy."

"Good." She seems a little distracted. "I'm going to have a shower and then go grab some groceries."

"Fine."

"You'll be okay?"

Exactly what does Kensi think I'm going to get up, stuck here in bed? It's not like I'm going anywhere, is it? And it's certainly not like I've got some kind friend to make the lonely hours pass a little faster. At this rate I might even be reduced to watching the box-set of _Twilight_ ovies Eric gave me as a gag Christmas present. My sides are still sore from the hollow laughter that gift engendered, I can tell you. The mood I'm in, I might even be able rival the prolonged period of petulance that sulky girl indulged in. Okay, so I watched the movies once. It was all Bethany's fault: she thought the guy that played the werewolf was (and I quote) 'cute'. I thought otherwise. I also thought I'd rather cut my wrists before I ever watched that stuff again. Having my tonsils out was considerably more entertaining. However, I don't think Bethany appreciated my running commentary, which was the only way I could manage to get through the endurance test, because I never saw her again after that night. If only I'd known, I would have given the DVDs as a leaving present.

"I'll be fine," I assured her and then watched as Monty trotted away at her heels, seemingly in thrall. Well, I kind of know how that feels. Kensi has that effect on me too. But this is really great - now my dog has deserted me too. So much for being him being faithful and loyal. Somebody needs to tell Monty that he's meant to be man's best friend. Mind you, I wouldn't want to be stuck here with me either, if I had a choice. Apart from anything, it seems ages since I had a shower, on account of this leg wound, which I've been told I have to keep dry. I'm not quite sure what would happen if it gets wet (although I do keep thinking of that scene in _Gremlins_) but I'm suitably terrified. However, even if showers are forbidden, nobody said anything about baths, did they? And as long as I sort of drape my leg over the side of the bath, I should be fine. What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

><p>I'm careful to wait until I hear the front door close, meaning that Kensi is safely out of the way. There is no sense in actively inviting disaster, is there? And then I'm still so scared that she might come back that I almost tip-toe across the room. Have you ever tried tip-toeing when you're on crutches? Don't bother, because it doesn't work. But eventually I make it into the bathroom, and sit down on the side of the bath in order to turn on the taps. It's funny how being on crutches reduces everything to a complicated series of maneuvers – you can't just do something, you have to plan it all out in advance and break down things into small steps.<p>

Take something as simple as having a bath. It sounded fine in theory. In practice, it's a bit more difficult, but I eventually I manage to lower myself into the water, all the time holding my bad leg up. Dignified this is not. I'm never going to laugh when I see one of those infomercials about the baths with the door in the side of them for people with restricted mobility. People like me. Right now they seem like one of the most brilliant inventions ever. But if it was a struggle getting into the bath, it is worth it now. Lying back in the hot water feels incredible. For the first time in days I'm starting to feel a bit more human, rather than this pathetic invalid just lying around and cluttering the place up. I'm sure I smell a whole lot sweeter too. With a bit of careful sliding down, I even manage to wash my hair. All in all, I'm feeling a whole lot better and I'm just lying there, wondering in an abstracted sort of way about how the hell I'm going to get out of the bath, when all of a sudden the door crashes open and Callen and Sam burst in.

Have you ever noticed how life has this really bad habit of sneaking up and biting you on the butt when you laast expect it? When all your defences are down (metaphorically speaking)? This is one of those times. One minute I am lying there, relaxing in the hot water and feeling the stress seep out of my body, the next I'm looking up at my team mates in horror. I almost shriek like a girl, but somehow I manage to choke it down. There's really not a whole lot I can do, given I am lying almost completely flat in the bath, with my bad leg carefully slung along the side. It is definitely not the most graceful position to be found in and given they have seen pretty much everything there is little point in going all coy. So I settle for just glaring at them, with as much dignity as I can summon up, which is precious little, given the position I'm in. But what the hell are they doing here? In my bathroom, while I'm in the bath? Aren't I allowed even a shred of dignity?

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Deeks?"

Now, I know Sam isn't from California originally, but surely they have baths in New York? Isn't it kind of obvious what I'm doing?

"I'm having a bath, Sam." I say this with as much dignity as I can muster, which is precious little, given the circumstances.

"He's having a bubble bath." Callen is trying his best to keep a straight face, but he's not particularly successful.

Pushing my wet hair out of my eyes, I glare at him. "It's shampoo." Actually, it's bubble bath. Is there a law that says a man can't enjoying a bubble bath in his own home? And is it really too much to ask that he can do this without an audience? Well, clearly it is, if that man is called Marty Deeks.

"Nope, it's bubble bath." Sam picks up the container and studies it carefully. "It says it's for 'fragrantly cleansed skin'. Are you fragrant, Deeks?"

Nope - I'm mad, that's what I am. "Kensi must have brought that over." Then again, maybe she bought it, along with the hot chocolate, the marshmallows and that candle that suddenly materialized without warning. If I'd wanted a candle, I would have bought a candle. The hot chocolate was good though. Why can't people just butt out of my life and leave me alone?

Callen looks around, as if he's expecting to find Kensi perched on the toilet or something. "Where is Kensi?"

"She's out."

"What's she doing going out and leaving you alone?" He sounds really annoyed.

Do you know something? The last time I looked, I wasn't a little kid. And I'm suddenly aware that the bubbles are gently dissipating and the fact that I am not a little kid is only too obvious. And Kensi is not my keeper. Although Kensi is a keeper, of course. That kind of goes without saying.

"What are you doing here?"

Apart from standing staring down at me and looking all superior because a) you're both fully clothed, b) I'm naked and c) you've not got one leg slung over the side of the bath disclosing all your God-given assets to all and sundry. This is not the strongest position I've ever been in and that's the truth.

"Seeing far too much for comfort." Sam pretends to shudder. I consider letting myself slide back under the water so I can drown.

"I'm going to have nightmares about this tonight." Callen picks up a towel and then he and Sam manhandle me out of the bath. I give in as gracefully as possible, which isn't saying much.

Sam looks around the room. That's doesn't take long: it's not a big bathroom. "Where's your robe?"

"I don't have a robe." I wrap the towel around my waist and wonder what it is with NCIS agents and their preoccupation with robes?

"You do now." Kensi breezes in with a large carrier bag, pulls out a robe and hands it to me. It's quite nice, I guess – if you like navy blue toweling. At least it makes me feel slightly less vulnerable. There is nothing quite as disconcerting as being the one naked person in the room. Especially when one of the other people in the room happens to be your partner. Your female partner, who you kind of like. Just a bit. And exactly why is the whole team suddenly congregating in my bathroom? Seeing as I live alone, I've never got around to putting a lock on the bathroom door, a fact I know regret and vow to remedy as soon as possible. Or maybe I should just bow to the inevitable and install a revolving door instead?

At least she waits until I've got the robe on before she launches into me. "What the hell were you doing, Deeks?"

"He was having a bath," Sam says helpfully and nearly earns himself a smack from Kensi for his troubles.

"Why were you having a bath?"

This is like that game they used to make us play at school: Twenty Questions. "Because I needed to?"

"You'd better not have got that dressing wet." Kensi makes a grab for the hem of the robe, like she's going to inspect the wound. Can I just say that the bullet hit my upper thigh? As I said before, it's a good thing I've got fast reactions, so I manage to grab both sides of the robe and hold on tight, even if the crutches do skid a bit. Quite a lot, actually. For a second I think I'm going to go crashing down onto the floor, but in the end I just kind of lurch drunkenly into Sam, who grabs hold of me, but manages to almost send Callen flying in the process. I'm sure if you saw this on one of those shows where people send in their home videos you'd find it hilarious, but when it's actually happening to you, and you've got this nasty suspicion that you might just have torn the wound back open, it's not that funny.

"Shit." It's a good thing that Sam is strong and that he's got a firm grip on me, because there's a burning flame shoot through my leg and the world goes slightly dark around the edges. I feel kind of sick.

"Give us some space."

Nobody argues with Sam when he speaks in that tone of voice. Not even Kensi. The bathroom is suddenly blessedly empty and he lowers me gently down onto the side of the bath and then put his hand on the back of my head and pushes it down between my knees. "Just breathe. Take it slow."

After a couple of minutes the world stops spinning around. "Thanks. Do me a favour?"

Sam just looks at me. "I'm not styling your hair for you." That probably sounds kind of heartless, but it isn't. It restores normality, so that I don't feel quite so pathetic and useless.

"I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to, but I need to check and make sure I've not ripped any stitches…"

That's not quite as mad as it sounds: you see, when a bullet goes in, it's also got to get back out again. And it generally makes a bigger hole as it exits. Gross, I know, and probably way too much information, but you see why I needed Sam to help me check for any damage. I'm not quite up to doing any contortions right now. I've got to give Sam due credit: he helped me and he didn't make a big deal out of it. And by some miracle, all the stitches had held. Stitches freak me out. Wounds I can cope with, ditto for broken limbs – and I can deal with people puking up, but stitches turn my stomach. Especially when those stitches are in me. Don't ask me why, it's just this thing I have.

"We don't have to tell Kensi about this, do we?" I'm pleading. I know it and Sam knows it.

"Are you frightened about what she might say, Deeks?"

"Terrified." I'm not even going to bother to attempt to disguise that fact.

Sam looks relieved. "Me too. Kensi will probably kill me if she finds out I've been sneaking a peek at your butt."

Actually, it's more like my upper thigh, but no matter. And what does he mean by that anyway? "Callen will probably be wildly jealous too."

We look at each other.

"So we're never going to talk about this – agreed?"

"Agreed."

* * *

><p>Either Callen has been doing some sweet-talking, or he carries about major-duty tranquillisers, because when we get back out to the living room, Kensi doesn't say anything. Mind you, she doesn't have to, because that boot-faced look she's wearing says it all.<p>

"We bought you a smoothie maker. And all the fixings." Callen points to a large box sitting on the table, along with a basket filled with fresh fruit and vegetables. I'm genuinely touched. I also make a mental note not to let Kensi anywhere near it, after the last smoothie she made contained not just grapes, but grape stalks. 'Interesting' would be one way to describe the resulting concoction – but it's not necessarily the word that springs to my mind. There is roughage, and then there is indigestible.

"You need to make sure he eats, Kensi." Sam sounds like he's my mom or something. "I could count all his ribs in there."

That wasn't all he could count. I try to blot out the fact that I was basically exposing myself to them. But it wasn't my fault. Surely a man has a right to expect a little privacy in his own bathroom for crying out loud? Well, not if his name is Marty Deeks and he's a member of the NCIS OSP, obviously. Still, it could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been Hetty walking in on me. Or maybe even Hetty and Nell. That would have made her perky little hairdo wilt and no mistake. Oh well, maybe they'll stop going on about how I'm not really a natural blond now they've seen the evidence. I can but hope.

"Don't blame Kensi: it's not her fault. I'm not the easiest of patients."

Kensi flashes me a grateful look that softens her words "If you'd just do as you're told, Deeks. Like staying in bed. I would have helped you when I got back."

I can feel myself redden as I think about Kensi giving me a bath and I just wait for the barrage of sarcastic comments from Callen and Sam, but they both stay quiet. Which can only mean one thing – I look more pathetic than I'd previously imagined. It's either that or they are stunned into envious silence at the memory of seeing me in the bath. I rather suspect the former, sad to say.

"Are you coming in tomorrow to pick up that paperwork?" Callen asks Kensi. I sense he is making a valiant effort to change the subject.

"I've got to take Deeks to the hospital for his check-up."

"We could call in afterwards? Just for a while?" For some reason, I kind of want to go back there.

"You're sure?" Kensi looks at me, and that worried expression is on her face again.

"I'm certain." I guess it's like getting back onto a horse after a fall: the sooner you do it, the better it is. And if you don't get straight back on, then there's a chance you might never ride again. So I'll be back at the Mission for the first time since I ran out of the doors straight into a hailstorm of bullets? I got lucky – I'm still here. I'm a bit banged up, but I'm still here. I'm right here, sitting on my couch wearing a robe my partner's bought me and I'm ever so slightly confused. No change there then.

* * *

><p>* <em>"just for a handful of liver you left me" is a parody of the opening lines of Robert Browning's poem, The Lost Leader (Just for a handful of silver he left usJust for a ribband to stick in his coat) after William Wordsworth accepted the position of Poet Laureate._

_You will see that I could not resist the temptation to have Deeks in the bath. Again. This seems to be somewhat of a recurring theme in my stories. There is just something about wet, soapy Deeks that works so well. Why haven't we seen this in the show? _


	5. Chapter 5

Once Kensi is convinced that I'm not going to pass out when I revisit the site of my shooting, she reluctantly agrees that we'll call in at the Mission tomorrow. It seems like an age since I was there. Eventually, Callen and Sam realise that they should probably make a token effort to turn up at work at some point today, make their excuses and leave. Kensi sees them to the door and then comes back and eyes me up speculatively.

"I don't suppose there's any point in sending you back to bed just now, is there?"

Under other circumstances, I would have made something of that and thrown out some smart remark about how she wasn't good enough for me, or that she only loved me for my body, but right now I just don't feel like it. If you really want the truth, I'm getting used to it being me and Kensi hanging around here, instead of just me. So I just try to look as healthy and wholesome as possible. I'm glad that I managed to wash my hair, because it is kind of tricky to look appealing when your hair is limp and greasy. Just in case, pretty much as an insurance policy, I come out with a line that will almost certainly guarantee that Kensi won't banish me to the lonely purgatory of my bedroom.

"I might be able to manage some lunch."

Bingo! Kensi's eyes light up like candles. "Really?"

It's kind of like a Pavlovian reaction. I must try it again this evening. Mind you, now that I think about it, I do feel sort of empty inside. I try to work out the last time I ate what could be classified as a proper meal and decide it was the night before the shooting. And that's far too long. No wonder everyone keeps complaining about how skinny I've got. 'The Deeks Diet – drop ten pounds in five days. It's drastic but it works.". Nope, I can't say that I'd recommend it to anybody.

"I'm a bit hungry. Not starving, or anything like that. But I could eat something."

Kensi is positively beaming when she hears that. It strikes me that she's kind of like a mother whose kid has just learned to feed himself. "I was hoping you'd say that. How about some soup?"

The woman is a goddess. A light vegetable broth sounds perfect. And we've got all those fresh vegetables in the basket Sam and Callen brought over. Simple. Everyone can make soup, right? However, this is Kensi, and no matter how gorgeous and kick-ass she is, Kensi cannot cook. That is a fact. Instead, she rummages through the grocery sack and then triumphantly produces a couple of cans of cream of tomato soup. My stomach clenches into a knot. The thought of heavy, acidic tomato soup almost makes me retch.

"I'll just go get things ready, shall I?"

Kensi's already getting a pan out. She sounds really happy, so I just lie there on the couch and watch her, bustling about my kitchen.

"And we'll have toast, with butter and sliced cheese on top. That's what my dad always used to make me when I was sick. He'd say it was the best cure there was. And I believed him."

She continues like this, talking happily about how her dad would look after her when she was a kid and off-school sick, how she'd lie on the sofa and they'd watch the soaps together. All the while she is heating up the soup, making toast and slicing up some cheese. I don't say anything: I just listen, aware of how unusual this is. Kensi hardly ever says anything about her father, and to hear her talking about him like this, just normal anecdotes – well, it's kind of special. Like she's suddenly found the key to a door that's been locked shut for far too long. Leaning my head back on the sofa, I realize how much I'm enjoying hearing her talk like this, and it strikes me that I'm happy because Kensi is happy. I don't think I've ever felt like this before. It's kind of disconcerting. It unsettles me, to be honest. You see, usually I'm kind of selfish. I live alone – I don't have to please anybody, or think about anybody except myself. Well, there's Monty, I suppose – but that's different. For starters, he's a dog. And second, well – dogs give you so much love, without expecting anything in return. They don't care if you're a selfish, self-centred bastard who wouldn't recognise a meaningful relationship if it came up and shook hands with you. A dog doesn't even mind if you're basically unloveable: a dog just gives you unconditional love. I close my eyes for a second…

"Deeks?"

I come out of my reverie with a start: Kensi is standing in front of me holding out a tray. "You were a million miles away."

She's right. I was away in another world, imagining this couple walking barefoot along a beach, hand in hand, just happy to be together, not even talking that much. The setting sun was casting a pinkish tone on the sand, the waves were lapping at their feet and the air of contentment they exuded was palpable. They were just happy together, happy because they were together and it made me wonder if I could ever feel like that. And it made me long to find out. Sex is easy – I can do sex. But relationships? That's completely different. I can't do relationships. Sooner or later, I foul them up. I know that, so I just stick to sex. You're thinking I'm a coward, aren't you? You're probably right. It's a cop out, but it does have its consolations.

"I guess I was." I take the tray and place it on my lap. "This looks good."

I'm telling the truth. Kensi's ladled out a small portion of soup, and it looks like she's used a multigrain bread that she must have bought that specially. She's gone to a lot of trouble here. It's a long time since anybody looked after me like this. The last person who acted like she cared about me was Nicole, and that relationship was so wrong on so many levels… let's just say that at the time Nicole was married to this guy, who had been my best friend when I was a kid, but was now acting as my paid informant. How's that for warped? But it gets better. You see, Nicole didn't know I was a cop, or that Ray and I had been buddies a long time ago. She thought I was a low-life called Max Gentry. And yet she still cared for me – came by when I was sick and looked after me. And to my everlasting shame, I let her. I knew she was in love with me, and part of me was in love with her. Whether it was the part that was Max Gentry, or the part that was still Marty Deeks, I have no idea.

I used Nicole. I used her then and I used her years later, when Ray got himself into trouble again. And I hated myself for doing that, and tried to convince myself I had no choice. I had a choice. I knew that, and yet I still used her. It was easy – she was right there and she wanted to help and I took advantage of her.

That brief précis should give you some insight about why I don't do relationships anymore. I screwed Nicole up. I betrayed her love. Somehow, I just can't help fucking everything up when it comes to relationships. And I am not doing that to Kensi. No way. She deserves better than me – she deserves so much better than me. Not that this is actually an issue, because Kensi has zero interest in me as anything except her work partner. I've lost count of the times she's made that perfectly obvious. Even I can take a hint when it's rammed home with all the subtlety of a pile-driver.

Not for the first time, I wonder why we couldn't just have met in a club, had a wild fling, with loads of mind-blowing sex and then gone our separate ways. That way she wouldn't have crept underneath my skin, invaded my thoughts and danced across my dreams, night after frustrating night. I must be feeling better, because I'm thinking about sex again. Only I know that I don't want sex with Kensi: I want to make love to her, so that it is beyond physical because there is an emotional connection there too. I want everything with Kensi.

I know things were kind of bad after I was shot and now I'm beginning to think that this might be what the self-help books call 'coming to terms with confronting your own mortality'? If it is, I don't like it. I was much happier just indulging in reckless hedonism and flirting with my partner. And if half the time I picked up girls who looked exactly like her and called them 'Princess' or 'Baby Girl' instead of their actual names, then so what? Nobody was hurt, and we all had fun. They were using me every bit as much as I was using them. We all knew this was a game. It's just that I am heartily sick of playing games.

So I sit there and think doom-laden thoughts and eat my soup, aware that Kensi is watching every single morsel that goes into my mouth. Hetty must have read her the riot act, told her to get some meat on my bones, one way or another. I'm sure Kensi has got a whole heap of things she'd rather be doing than baby-sitting me and walking my dog. She must be bored out of her skull. By the time I've finished thinking about the mess I've made of my life, I'm astonished to find that I've eaten all the soup and most of the toast.

"It looks like you were hungrier than you thought."

"I guess I was." Kensi doesn't know the truth of that, or how much I want her. Right now I'm hungry for something else, and for once it's not sex. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to have someone look after to you and to care for you. I want all that. I want to commit. Isn't that a joke? Marty Deeks has finally grown up and joined the adult world. Maybe I should take out a full page advert in the LA Times? "Looks like your dad was right about the tomato soup."

"He usually was." There's a far-away look in her eyes and I can tell that Kensi is thinking about her father, and that she still misses him terribly. I wish there was something I could say or do, but there isn't, so I just sit like an idiot, kind of staring at her. Monty must sense something, because he goes over and presses his body against her leg. Automatically, Kensi reaches down and pets him. Things have reached a sorry state when my dog is better able to comfort my partner than I am. I'd be so bad for Kensi, so completely and utterly wrong for her. I care too much about Kensi. There is no way I am going to screw her up. She deserves so much better than me.

* * *

><p>Kensi spends the rest of the day either trying to tempt me to eat or presenting me with handfuls of pills to take. I try to tell her that I don't need the painkillers any more, but she insists. I've got a nasty feeling that if I'm dumb enough to refuse then she'll sit on me and force them down my throat. It seems easier just to take them somehow. But tomorrow I'm going to start to reclaim my life back. This has to stop. I can't take much more of this – of having Kensi here. It's too hard, I realise that now. She is being so nice it's like having a different person around, one who is kind, and caring - not the spiky, funny, volatile Kensi I know and love.<p>

Love?

Okay, let's back up there. Love? Who said anything about love? I'm not in love. I'm not in love with Kensi. I might have a bit of a thing for her, but that's all. Any man under ninety would have a thing for Kensi, let's be honest. She's pretty much my ideal woman – and not just all the superficial things, like her face and her body. No, there's much more than that when it comes to Kensi. She's funny and she's fierce and she's so brave it scares the living daylights out of me. There's virtually nothing Kensi can't do – she just fills me with awe sometimes. Not that I've ever told her that, of course. She'd think I was being weird or having a relapse and rush me back into hospital. Anyway, we've never had the sort of relationship that could develop into love, and we never will have. Love is a two-way street, and I'm driving on the wrong side of the road. Right from the start, I've made these outrageous statements, which Kensi has either ignored or batted right out of the court. It all started as a joke, but it's not funny anymore. I've pushed and Kensi's pulled – and now look where we are. Nowhere. I know this is going nowhere and I know it can never go anywhere. That's the hell of it.

"You're very quiet. Should I be worried?" Kensi's hovering over me with that anxious look on her face again.

"I was just thinking." Mainly about how I've messed everything in my life up. She'll never know what a lucky escape she's had.

She pulls a face. "Did it hurt?"

I could kiss her. Of course I could kiss her. The day I don't want to kiss Kensi is the day my heart stops beating. If I was selfish, I could just reach up and put my hands on either side of her face and we could kiss. But this is a return to normality, to what we do, what we have always done: the comments, the sarcastic remarks, the joking around. I don't want to lose what I have with Kensi, not now we are back to normal. This is us. Not that there is an 'us', of course, and there never will be. Which is a damn shame. But that's just the way it is. That's the way it has to be. Because I care too much about Kensi to ever risk hurting her. I think that I might even love her. I'm no good at relationships, I know that. So it's best that we stay as partners – nothing more. Sometimes I am too heroic for my own good. It's either that or I got some brain damage when I thunked my head of the sidewalk.

"How about you kiss it better for me?" I make sure to say this as suggestively as possible.

"Dream on, Deeks." She leans forward and studies me carefully.

"Like what you see?" I can do this, of course I can. It's almost second nature and it's not like I'm tempted to reach out and pull her in for a kiss. Yeah, right. Nice one, Deeks.

"I like the fact you're no longer the colour of cream cheese," Kensi says frankly. "You've actually got some colour in your cheeks."

Of course I have. You try having a beautiful woman staring intently at you and see how well you manage. "Yeah, well. It's probably because you've been taking such good care of me. Thanks."

There is an awkward silence that seems to stretch on forever before Kensi says anything. "No need to thank me. That's what partners do, isn't it? We look out for each other."

"Sure."

If I didn't know better, I might almost think Kensi had a bit of a thing for me too, just like we joke about. Of course, she doesn't feel like that: I know that because she's told me so, a couple of hundred times. Partners: that's what we are. Nothing more than that. It's quite simple really. So why do I have such a hard time trying to cope with it? After a while, I give up the struggle and settle down for a snooze. Just as I'm dropping off, Monty hops up onto the couch beside me and snuggles his back against my stomach. It feels warm and reassuring, and my arm goes out and hugs him that little bit closer.

When I wake up, Monty is gone, but the throw is tucked carefully around me. Dammit. Why does Kensi have to be all-fired sweet and caring? Why can't she just be sarcastic and piss me off? That settles it: she's going to have to go after tomorrow, because I can't stand this for much longer. Once they've given me the all clear at the hospital and taken the stitches out, there'll be no reason for Kensi to stay here anyway.

I virtually have to unwind myself from the throw in order to sit up, and in doing so I discover my robe is gaping open. Great. And I'm not wearing anything underneath it. I bet it was like that when Kensi tucked me in, just like I was some little kid. Are any more indignities going to be heaped on me? Next thing she's going to be telling me I was drooling in my sleep and present me with a bib.

I need to reclaim my life. And then I need to have some great but meaningless sex. But first, I need to get Kensi out of my head.

* * *

><p><em>He's hopeless, isn't he? And Kensi is every bit as bad.<em>  
><em>Fear not, gentle readers, for fate is about to take a hand.<em>  
><em>And if that doesn't work, then I will have no alternative but to send in my shock troops of plot bunnies.<em>


	6. Chapter 6

Staples? Really?

Did you know they use staples to hold your skin together? As in actual metal staples? That's not right, surely. I mean, stitches are bad enough, but staples… that's in another league of wrongness. An 'out-of-this-universe' sort of league. I made sure I wasn't looking when the nurse started to haul them out of my leg, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that she used a staple remover. Talk about creative uses for office equipment. What's next? The propelling pencil with a 5H lead as a weapon for poking your eye out? Right now, nothing would surprise me. Of course, there is that flick knife Hetty likes to pretend is a letter opener… Maybe I should get in touch with the Department of Defense and suggest that instead of buying all these guns, and ammo, and rocket launchers, they could just have a quick browse through a stationery catalogue. It would save the tax payer a hell of a lot of money. It might even save enough money to give us law enforcement people a wage rise. Call me cynical, but that isn't ever going to happen, is it?

I was almost expecting Kensi to ask if I'd put on clean underwear this morning before we left my apartment this morning for my hospital appointment. Actually, the way Kensi has been acting lately, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd tried to have a quick underwear inspection, just to make sure I wasn't going to disgrace her. I have no idea why Kensi thinks that I can't look after myself – apart from the fact that right now I'm a bit useless, on account of my leg. But it's not as if I asked for that - it wasn't my fault that I got shot, was it? I didn't wake up that morning and think 'Hey, things have been kind of dull around here lately. How about I get myself shot, just to liven things up a little?' Anyway, she's done a great job, but I can't cope with having her around here for much longer. I lay awake all last night, knowing that Kensi was in the next room and I just thought about her. Nothing else, honestly. Which is a bad sign for me. But I just thought about Kensi and how near she was – and how I was never going to have her in my life as anything except my partner and how much that sucked.

She noticed that I hadn't slept much. Of course she did. I can't slip anything by her. Right now I feel as if Kensi has got me underneath a microscope and is studying my every movement.

"Are you alright?" That look was back on her face: the worried one. And that makes me feel so guilty and so useless, knowing that I'm giving her all this grief.

"I'm fine. I just didn't sleep much last night."

"Was your leg hurting? Is it alright? Do you want some more painkillers?"

"Kind of, yes and no. In that order."

I want to tell her just to leave me alone, but how can I? She's only doing what Hetty has told her to do – which is to look after me. I'm sure there are loads of things Kensi would rather be doing, but she's doing her job, and she's doing it pretty well. The only thing is that it is killing me. She's killing me with kindness and I don't want Kensi to be kind to me. I want her to be enticing and teasing and funny and as hot as hell, so that she sends the blood bubbling through my veins and so that my spine seems to crack into place when she walks into a room. I want to tell Kensi that I just have to get the merest hint of her perfume and my mind is so full of her that I can hardly think straight and that I want to make long, slow love to her, in a thousand different ways.

Of course, I say none of these things. That would ruin everything. First of all, Kensi would think I'd definitely lost my mind, and then she'd run out of here, screaming. I can't say I'd exactly blame her. I've not got the greatest track record when it comes to women, after all. The fact that I'm in my thirties, still single and the longest relationship I've ever had is with my dog pretty much says everything you need to know about me, doesn't it? What really bothers me is that if I did say something, then I'm pretty sure I'd find myself transferred back to LAPD so fast it would make me dizzy. So I don't say anything. Not a single word. I just drink my coffee like a good boy, and then I let Kensi drive me to the hospital.

* * *

><p>I'm almost certain that Kensi would have come into the doctor's office with me, given half a chance. So I had to make sure that I planted myself firmly in the doorway and the crutches were actually pretty effective in making sure she couldn't try to sneak past me.<p>

"I won't be long. Why not get yourself a cup of coffee while you're waiting?"

Kensi looked kind of crestfallen at this. I think she wanted to tell the doctor all about what a lousy patient I was: how I didn't take my tablets, didn't eat enough and did stupid things like have a bath when she left me alone for ten minutes. I don't need any more of that sort of ritual humiliation, nor do I want Kensi to witness the unedifying spectacle of a grown man standing in a doctor's office with his pants down around his ankles. Why couldn't I just have got shot in the arm?

"That's healing very nicely," the doctor says, after studying my leg, back and front, while I stand there, staring up at the ceiling and trying to pretend I am somewhere else. "We can probably get those sutures out today, and you should feel a lot more comfortable."

"Can I lose the crutches too?" I make a grab for my pants to try to pull them back up, which isn't as easy as it sounds when yo've only got one eg that works properly and are balanced precariously on said crutches.

"Not for another week. You've got to give yourself time to heal properly."

"But I can go back to work, right?" Okay, I'm pushing it, but hey – what have I got to loose, right?

The doctor gives me this patronizing smile. Have you noticed how good doctors are at doing that? I reckon they probably have a special course in that at Medical School. 'Mildly demeaning: the raised eyebrow as a medical speciality'. It's probably oversubscribed.

"She said you would say that."

"Who? My partner?" How could Kensi betray me like that?

The doctor looks at his notes. "A Miss Lang? Miss Henrietta Lang. She says I am to ignore everything you say and that you are not to go back to work for at least another fortnight." He gestures to a chair. "You do know how lucky you are, don't you?"

Oh yes, I'm really lucky to be hirlping around in a highly unattractive manner with the world's hottest jailor looking after me. Nothing like adding frustration on top of all my pain and suffering. I must have looked kind of skeptical because the doctor fixed me with a beady glare.

"You're lucky to be here, Mr Deeks. If it wasn't for the swift action of your colleagues, you wouldn't be sitting in that chair right now. You'd be in the mortuary."

Okay, the bedside manner was decidedly lacking there. Why didn't he just kick my crutches out from under me when he had the chance?

"Really? I don't remember much about it." Apart from the pain, of course. And the terror. I kind of thought I might be dying, you see. And Kensi. I remember Kensi. She was right there then and she's been right there for me ever since. And it's killing me, little piece by little piece.

He looks at his notes again and I get the impression that Hetty has given him detailed instructions about what he can and cannot tell me. His next words confirm my suspicions. "Why not ask your team about it? I'm sure Miss Lang would be happy to fill you in. She's just out there, so why not ask her?"

"That's not Miss Lang." This must be the first time anybody has confused Hetty and Kensi. Under other circumstances it would be hilarious. "That's not Hetty. Miss Lang, I mean. That's Kensi. My partner."

"Ah. I thought there was something more than just a working relationship between you two."

I don't correct him. Why should I? It's not like I'm ever going to see the man again. Besides, I kind of like the idea that other people think we're a couple. I'm good at deluding myself.

The nurse comes through at that point and leads me off to a treatment room, where she removes the staples and I wonder what sort of perverted mind thought up that bright idea – stapling torn flesh back together. I don't care how effective it is; the whole idea just grosses me out. Would you believe she actually asked me if I wanted to see them afterwards? I nearly asked her if she wanted to see a grown man fall down on the floor in a dead faint, but to be honest, she didn't look like she had much of a sense of humour, so I kept my mouth shut. When a woman is fussing around your inner thigh with antiseptic and dressing, I've found this to be the prudent thing to do.

"Well?" Kensi practically leaps out of her chair when I eventually come out, like a racehorse that's been straining to get out of the starting gate; all long legs and flowing hair and eyes that are so huge and dark.

"He's doing fine," the doctor says, like I'm not able to talk for myself. "The wounds are clean and healing nicely. He just needs to take things easy for another couple of weeks and not do anything too strenuous. I know I can rely on you to make sure of that." I don't like the tone of his voice. I especially do not like what he is implying, mainly because Kensi will kill me if she discovers I didn't set him right about the whole 'partner' thing earlier on. But amazingly, Kensi doesn't say anything, she just colours a bit and then bites her lip and nods her head.

"I didn't say anything," I reassure her as we walk back to the car. "I don't know where he got the idea we were involved."

Kensi just looks at me, and I've no idea what is going through her mind. "Of course you didn't, Deeks," she says dully. "After all, there's nothing to say, is there? We're just partners."

We drive to the Mission in silence. I goofed there, I know that. Now, if only I could work out what I did that was so wrong, maybe I could make it all right again? But I'm not going to ask and she's not going to say, so we sit there in silence. How come I just manage to upset Kensi all the time? That's the last thing I want to do. It's just like I can't help it, because that's the way things are between us. And I hate that. I hate what I've trapped myself into.

* * *

><p>Someone has scrubbed the sidewalk since my last journey past. There's no trace of my blood now – everything has been wiped clean, just as if it never happened. Still, I can't help kind of staring, like there should be a plaque or something. 'Here lay Marty Deeks, a really dumb bastard, who never knew a good thing when it was staring him in the face'. Story of my life, don't you know?<p>

Kensi parks right outside the doors and when we go in it's Nell who spots us first. She lets out a strangled squeal of "Deeks!" and come bounding across the room towards me. For one moment I think she's going to bowl me over and I brace myself for the assault, but she skids to a halt and then just stands there looking at me. This is getting seriously disconcerting. Why do people keep looking at me like Elvis has just walked into the room?

"I missed you," she says and then reaches up and puts her hand on my cheek.

For some reason there's a huge lump in my throat. But big boys don't cry. "So how come you didn't come visit me in the hospital?" I mean it as a joke, but it misfires.

Nell blinks a couple of times. "Don't you remember? I was there every day."

"He was kind of out of it, Nell. The doctor says it's not unusual." There's a warning note in Kensi's voice.

"Sorry." I'm not quite sure I'm apologizing to or what I'm apologizing for, but sometimes it's safest just to apologise anyway. Especially with women. I think of it as kind of like an insurance policy – you never know when it will come in handy. Or save your skin. Luckily I'm saved by the appearance of Sam and Callen

"Deeks!"

Why does everyone have to keep saying my name? I might have lost a chunk of my memory, but I still know who I am.

"I hardly recognized you with your clothes on." Sam is grinning broadly at his own wit. He punches me on the arm, which is quite something coming from Sam. It's practically a declaration of undying love, if you really want to know.

Callen just stands a short distance away, with a smile on his face. "Good to have you back, Deeks." Of course, he's been here before: he knows what it is like to come back almost from the dead. It's kind of overwhelming, if you really want to know. Everything is the same – only it's all changed at the same time, if that makes sense. Or maybe it's me that's changed? It's like I can see clearly now, for the first time in years. I know exactly what I want and of course that has to be the one thing I can't have. Namely Kensi. Oh God, I want her so much it hurts.

"It's good to be back." Our eyes meet for a second and I know that I am not fooling him for one instant. Callen knows exactly how I feel. I want him to tell me that everything is going to be alright, that I will get through this. He looks at me and gives me a small nod.

The next moment, everyone is there: the whole team, which is pretty much everyone I care about and who cares about me. Plus one other. Director Vance. I look at him and my heart sinks. This isn't good. He walks towards me, and it's kind of like Moses parting the Red Sea, the way people scatter out of the way. You wouldn't know there was anyone else around from the way Vance acts: he just walks straight forward, not looking to left or right, so confident is he that people will automatically get out of his way. Our esteemed director is not exactly a people person. I'm not entirely sure he's a person at all, because the milk of human kindness is singularly lacking in his make-up. Vance treats everyone the same: namely like dirt. I wonder if he's going to dress me down in front of everyone for my stupidity in getting myself shot.

"Detective Deeks." He gives me this look, which is broadly similar to the one I use when I've stepped in something unpleasant. There's no need for that, because it's not exactly difficult to pick up after your dog, is it? I wonder how Kensi's coping with the havoc that liver's been wreaking on Monty's digestive system? She's not said anything, but I sure she won't be feeding him raw meat again in a hurry. I notice she'd had to go out and buy more poop bags this morning, which is never a good sign.

"Director Vance." I try to compose my face into something appropriately blank, but my bad leg is shaking hard.

"Nice work there." It's really hurting him to have to say this, I can tell. That toothpick in his mouth twitches convulsively.

"Thank you." What else can I say? I've no idea what he's talking about. Only Vance is staring at me, and it's kind of disconcerting. I feel like I've got to say something else, so I add, "I was just doing my job. Sir." I reckon that should just about cover all the bases. I hope it does.

"Yes. Well, anyway – you did a good job. Well done." He actually shakes my hand, which takes some nifty maneuvering with the crutches, I can tell you. He tries to give a friendly smile, like we're mates or something, only it doesn't quite come off. Somehow I don't think Vance has got a whole lot of friends, because that chummy smile looked more like a rictus. After that, he beats a hasty retreat.

"Okay – do you want to tell me what that was about?" I look around the room and get only a whole load of blank looks in return. It's up to Hetty to leap into the breach.

"Director Vance was just visiting and he wanted to thank you personally. There's an official note being put on your file."

Whoopee. Somebody hold me down, because the excitement's too much. A note on my file? That takes me back to school… "Martin was found in the girl's locker room. Again.' You know the kind of thing. They never bothered to ask why I was there, did they? I mean, there were lots of times when I was invited in, and it would have been rude to say 'no'. As well as completely insane. Who in their right mind would turn down an offer like that? Especially when it was Veronica Latimer, head cheerleader and all-round hottie who was doing the asking?

Wait a minute. Director Vance just happened to be visiting? Does Hetty think I lost some major IQ points when I got shot? It's far too convenient that the Director of NCIS (who is based in Washington, let's not forget, boys and girls) just happens to be here when I come limping in. But that's not important, not compared with all the other things I want to know. It's not important at all. There were still too many holes that have to be plugged.

"No – I don't care about that. I want to know what happened when I got shot. Everyone keeps making these veiled allusions to it – and I can't remember anything. I need to know."

All of a sudden, nobody will look at me straight: they are all very carefully looking anywhere except at me. And the silence feels like somebody has chucked a bucket of ice-cold water over me.

"The man has a right to now." It's Callen who speaks up. I knew I could rely on Callen. He understands how important this is. I have to confront my own mortality if I'm going to be able to go forward. I've been stuck in stasis for too long and now I need to break free.

* * *

><p><em>Will Deeks ever wake up and smell the coffee slushy plot bunny is lovingly brewing for him? maybe finding out what happened might just bring him to his senses. Maybe. This is Deeks, after all.<em>


	7. Chapter 7

"Exactly how much do you remember, Mr Deeks?" Hetty is looking at me curiously.

I think hard, pulling my mind back. We'd been working on a case involving a whole load of gang-bangers who were trying to move into arms dealing with terrorist, funding their initial investment via drugs, of course. And then they made the mistake of trying to assault some female Marines, who were out for a little R & R., which was where we stepped in and took the case over.

"Uh – not a whole lot. Kensi and I were outside the Mission. We'd been somewhere – or maybe we were going somewhere?" It's all sort of blurry, like I'm watching a film that's out of focus. I hate it when my memory plays tricks on me like this.

"We were coming back from breakfast," Kensi says quietly. "We'd pulled an all-nighter and Hetty had sent us out for a break. We went to the diner across the way. I had eggs. You had pancakes and bacon and eggs. Plus coffee – of course."

"That goes without saying." Sam looks across at me. "Sometimes I think we should just hook Deeks up to a caffeine IV."

I think of the dark purple bruising in the crook of my left arm where the last IV was and decide that I'm kind of okay just taking my caffeine orally.

Kensi heaves in a deep sigh and continues talking, but she won't look at me. "We'd just crossed the road, when the gangbangers drove past…"

It's starting to come back to me now: that moment when some sort of sixth sense made me turn around and I realised there was a gun pointing out of the car window. "I remember now." I look at Kensi and she's biting her lip and shuffling her feet awkwardly. "There wasn't anything we could do." It had all happened so fast, we just didn't have a chance.

"You didn't have to do that, Deeks." Kensi is still staring at the floor. I don't know what's wrong with her, because she would have done exactly the same thing for me.

"Of course I had to do that." What was I supposed to have done – just stood there and let her get shot? Anyway, if you want to know the honest truth, I hadn't thought – I'd just acted on instinct. You know when you're a kid and your teachers keep telling you to think first, before you go and do something? Well, they're wrong. They are completely and utterly wrong. In this job, there are loads of situations when you just have to act and not give any thought to the consequences. And one of those situations is where your partner is about to get shot in the chest.

"You saved my life." Kensi raises her head and looks me straight in the eye when she says that, and when I look at her face it is full of disgust.

"Yeah, well… you know."

Only I don't know. I'm more confused than ever and I don't know what else to say. All of a sudden it's like the clouds clear from my head and it strikes me that this is why Kensi has been acting so weird and looking after me so diligently. That's the right word, I think: 'diligently'. You see, for a while there, I'd kind of hoped it might be because Kensi cared for me as something other than her partner, but I guess I was wrong. Either that or I was deluding myself. I can see now that Kensi just feels guilty because I shoved her out of the way and managed to get myself shot in the process.

"Yeah, I know, Deeks." She's almost speaking in an undertone and I have to strain to hear her. It sounds terribly final the way she says that. All of a sudden my legs don't want to support me and my arms are shaking so much I can hardly grip onto the crutches. I discover that I want to sit down very badly.

Sam takes one look at me and practically manhandles me into a chair. "Delayed shock. Or PTSD?" I've never heard that tremor in his voice before, and I'm kind of freaked by it, if you really want to know.

When I manage to focus, Sam is kneeling down in front of me, one hand on my knee. "Sometimes it just hits you," he says, and he is looking directly into my eyes. I concentrate on his voice and on what he is saying. "The memories just burst back into your head without warning. And when that happens, it hits you like you've been slugged in the gut. There's not a lot you can do to stop it happening, but you can get through it, Deeks. You will get through it. And I'll help you."

Somehow I just know that he is speaking from personal experience. It's great advice, but it's not the memories of the shooting that have thrown me, it's the realization that by saving Kensi I've blown any chance of ever being anything more than her partner. Ironic, eh? I save her life, and discover that she feels obliged to be nice to me. There never was anything more between us. We were partners, that was all. And now I don't know if we can even be partners any more, not with the way Kensi is feeling. I don't want her to feel guilty, I don't want her to feel grateful – I just want her.

"I know the medics tend to poo-poo the very idea, but I've always found a nice cup of hot tea very soothing," Hetty says, trying to be practical. "Or perhaps it is the ritual of making the tea in the first place? One always feels that there cannot be too much wrong with the world when you have a really good cup of tea in your hand."

Unless you happen to hate tea, of course. Which I do. "I'd rather have a coffee, if it's all the same."

"The day you don't want a coffee is the day we get seriously worried about you, Deeks," Callen says and then I hear his footsteps going over to the machine. The coffee in the Mission is actually pretty rank, but it's still a lot better than tea.

"Can I see it go down?" Again there is one of those ominous silences. "Come on, I'm not stupid. I was shot right outside the Mission and it has to be on tape, right? I bet you've all seen it."

"I'm not sure that's such a good idea," Nell says, almost timidly for her.

Hetty interrupts, speaking in that crisp, no-nonsense voice of hers. "Nonsense. There is nothing worse than not knowing and imagining." She sounds as if she is speaking from experience. "You are sure about this, Mr Deeks?"

I've got both hands wrapped around the coffee cup, because all of a sudden I am freezing cold and trying not to shiver, but I manage to nod and then take a sip of blissfully hot coffee. By some miracle my chattering teeth don't bite a chunk out of the mug. I already know the worst, so what's the big deal about seeing myself getting shot on some surveillance video? I got shot saving Kensi and she feels guilty, which is why she's been hanging around me, looking after me so tenderly. My problem is that I thought it meant something more. And it's my problem, not Kensi's.

"I don't think it's a good idea." Kensi's voice is still low, but it is resolute.

"I need to know, Kensi. I have to see what happened." Hetty is right: tehre is nothing worse than not knowing. I think. Then again, I was quite happy deluding myself that maybe I had a chance with Kensi.

"Fine. Just don't expect me to watch it with you. Living through it was bad enough, thank you very much. I don't need to see it again, because I'm never going to forget a single moment."

I want to tell her that I need her to be there with me when I see it unfold on-screen, because we've already been through the worst together, but before I can say anything she's walking away with that staccato stride that tells me she's mad. I should have known the 'new, improved' Kensi, the soft and caring Kensi wouldn't last long. And I know I've managed to screw up all over again.

"Go after her, Sam." He looks at me in astonishment. "Go on. She's mad and she's hurting and if I know Kensi she needs to hit somebody or something. And you're the biggest one here. So take her into the gym and let her get rid of all that anger."

Because I'm scared for Kensi right now. I'm as scared for her as I was that moment when I saw the gun barrel sticking out of the car, or when I heard the first shot, the one that went whistling past my left ear as I made this desperate lunge towards her. And it strikes me that I just want Kensi to be alright, more than anything. That almost knocks me for six (not that it would take a whole lot to knock me down right now) because I can't ever remember feeling like this about anyone, not ever. Generally, I'm a selfish bastard, if you want to know the truth, but somehow Kensi has managed to change that. More than anything, I just want Kensi to be alright. She's hurting right now and I can't stand the thought of that.

"You're sure? Because if you need me…?"

Sam's got a huge heart, it's just that he hides it underneath this thick veneer of gruffness most of the time. I know he's there for me and somehow just knowing that makes it easier to do this, because it would be good to have Sam's solid, reassuring presence beside me when I watch the tape.

"I think Kensi needs you more than I do right now." The fact that I need her is utterly irrelevant. I'll manage. I've managed to go for years by myself and I guess I can do it a while longer. That's just the way things are in my life. My family could have been featured on a poster kids for dysfunctional living, after all.

Callen steps forward. "You go, Sam. I'll be here." He turns to me. "I've been down this road too."

He has, of course. Callen knows about being shot and about finding out the woman you love doesn't love you. His actions that sum up this team in one word: solidarity. I don't know where I would be or even who I would be without them and I hope I don't have to find out. Only I don't know if I'm going to be able to stay here much longer, what with Kensi feeling the way she does.

Once I've finished my coffee I manage to stagger up to Ops, with Callen strategically positioned behind me, just in case I fall back down again. That's what I mean about how we all look out for each other, because sometimes it's the small things that say the most. That's one of the reasons I love this job so much, because I never had that sense of back-up or brotherhood in LAPD. Plus the really cool gadgets we get are kind of great. And then there is Kensi, of course. It always comes back to Kensi in the end.

God help me, because I think I'm in love with Kensi. And I know I don't stand a chance with her. How many times has she told me that, or made it clear that we will never be anything but partners? How many times does she have to tell me that we're like brother and sister? I have to respect the way she feels. I can't say anything or do anything to let her know how I feel, because that would ruin everything. So here's the rub: do I suffer in silence and try to deny how I feel, or do I just walk away right now? I'm honestly not sure I can hide things much longer.

Okay: here are the facts. I've got to look at this objectively. Kensi only stayed over at my apartment out of a sense of duty. Nothing else. She feels guilty because I got shot and she didn't. She's fond of me, because I'm her partner and we spend a lot of time together. She loves me like she'd love a brother.

I don't want to be her brother: I want to be her lover. I know that. I guess I've always known that since the moment we first met, only then I wasn't thinking so much about love but more about sex. Raw, unbridled sex, which is what she represented to me back then. But now I want to love her and to be loved by her and I want to make love to her for the rest of my life. Only I know that if I give in to my impulses then I could ruin everything, I could take what has pulled us together and I could tear it apart into a hundred thousand tiny pieces that would scatter to the winds and be lost forever. If I did that, then I'd lose her. Because now Kensi means everything to me.

Can I keep on pretending? Or can I walk away and never see her again? Do I really have a choice? What would I do without Kensi? I try to tell myself that I don't have to think about this right now, I don't have to make any decisions, all I have to do is concentrate on watching the tapes and filling in the blanks in my memory. There is the vaguest chance things might start to make sense then. Just like there's a chance I might wake up tomorrow and find my leg is completely healed. So I reckon that I'll watch the tape and then I'll go home, get that bottle of rum I've been keeping for some special occasion and drink myself stupid. I might even put on a Johnny Cash CD and howl along as Johnny suffers for us all. I hurt myself today… ain't that the truth? And I think I hurt Kensi too. Why else would she go storming off like that? Some partner I am.

* * *

><p>So I limp slowly into Ops, where Eric has got all the tapes cued up, and I sit down and start to watch. It's kind of disconcerting, watching yourself wandering along the street, chatting to Kensi and all the time you can see the car coming closer and closer and you just know what is going to happen. The only blessing is that there is no sound. I'm not sure I wouldn't leap right out of my chair if I actually heard the gunshots.<p>

It seems my memory was playing tricks on me. I hadn't remembered the car slowing down for just long enough to let the gunman out, but there it is, all happening in front of me, and he has his gun leveled at Kensi. That's when I lunge towards her, shoving her out of the way, so that she goes sprawling, and at the same time I'm reaching for my gun.

"Too slow," I say critically. "Too damned slow."

"Not bad, under the circumstances," Callen says. "If you'd pulled your gun instead of pushing Kensi down, then she'd have been dead. You made the right choice."

"Undoubtedly," Hetty says. "I always knew you had good instincts."

I realise that they have already watched the tape, that they know exactly what is happening and what is going to happen because they have seen it a dozen times or more. I wonder if Kensi has watched it too?

It's hard to sit still and not react when I see the bullet explode through my leg. One instant, I'm swinging around, getting myself into position to fire off a round, the next thing the leg of my jeans is covered in blood and I'm falling down onto the ground. And as I do so, Kensi rolls over and fires this incredible shot that gets the shooter right in the head. It's as if she's shooting at a paper target, that's how cool she is.

"That's my girl!" I can't help myself and everyone bursts out laughing as Eric zooms in and then freezes the tape, so that Kensi's face fills the screen. She looks like a beautiful avenging angel. I've never seen such a look of concentrated fury and purpose on her face before and I'll never forget it.

"Bulls-Eye Blye - nobody shoots my partner and lives to tell the tale!" Callen jokes and then turns serious. "There's more, but you don't have to see it, not if you don't want to."

The thing is that I really don't want to, but I kind of know I have to. If I'm ever going to try to make some coherent sense out of all this, then I need to know exactly what happened. I just wish that Kensi was here too. She was there for me then, when I was lying on the sidewalk thinking I was going to bleed to death and I just wish she was here now. I look over to the doors and if sheer willpower could make them open, then any second now I'm going to hear that familiar subdued 'whoosh' and Kensi will come walking in. I stare a bit harder, and wish just a little bit more fervently, but nothing happens. And I realise that I've had a thing for her for so long, and that everyone must have known, up to and including Kensi. If she'd felt the same way, she would have said something, or done something. Or even come back, so that I wasn't sitting here by myself, like this island in the middle of the room, as everyone else stands around and looks at me expectantly.

"I want to see it. Play the tape, Eric."

How bad can it be?

* * *

><p><em>Do you really want me to answer that?<em>  
><em>Poor Deeks, he's in a bad place right now... and poor Kensi isn't much better. Will what he's about to see change his mind? Will Sam manage to talk some sense into Kensi? Will Hetty lock our star-crossed lovers into a room and make them both face up to their feelings once and for all?<em>  
><em>Obviously, I don't want to give too much away, but I will say that slushy plot bunny is standing waiting in the wings and he's hopping agitatedly from foot to foot. Or should that be paw to paw? No matter, because I reckon he's going to be making an entrance any time now. It's either that or he's desperate for the loo...<em>


	8. Chapter 8

_In which Deeks learns something important... and blood-thirsty readers finally get to discover what happened when he was shot._

* * *

><p>How bad can it be?<p>

Do you really want me to answer that? Well, let's put it this way: I was glad I was sitting down. Because as I watched the tape playing silently, I could remember everything: the cold concrete of the sidewalk penetrating though my jacket so that I was shivering even as my warm blood soaked my jeans; the way that I was lying staring up at the sky and thinking idly what a beautiful day it was and how stupid it would be to go and mess everything up by dying; the noise of the traffic and the distant, slightly hysterical screaming of someone in the distance. My head was throbbing like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the back of my skull and my leg felt as if it was being stabbed by a red-poker that some especially sadistic devil was twirling around inside my flesh. And I knew that I was going to die. The sun was very bright, and I was shutting my voice and just letting myself zone out. All of a sudden I was just too tired to do anything else. And I was so cold; my whole body was shivering convulsively. And then she was there…

"_Deeks!"_

_When Kensi shouts in that tone of voice, you pay attention, if you know what's good for you. I know exactly what is good for me, so I snap my eyes open._

"_Sorry, Kensi."_

"_Don't you dare say you're sorry," she says fiercely and then she clenches her whole hand around the wound in my leg, squeezing as hard as she could. Did I ever tell you how strong Kensi is? Take it from me – she's strong. So, she squeezes and I yell as loudly as any bull at Pamplona._

"_Oh God, I'm sorry, Deeks But I have to."_

"_I thought we weren't allowed to say 'sorry'?" I object. Why should there be one rule for her and another for me? That doesn't make sense and it's not fair._

"_I know. But I'm sorry anyway." And then she squeezes a bit tighter and I yell again and that's when she starts crying._

How could I have forgetten that? Kensi was crying. I don't mean that she had tears in her eyes, or even that the odd tear trickled slowly down her cheek – no, she was really crying. And Kensi never cries. Only there were definitely tears rolling down her cheeks, but despite that she never once relaxed the death-grip she had around my thigh.

"_I can't stop the bleeding." She sounds completely panicked. I've never heard Kensi sound anything less than completely confident, so that just confirms things are as bad as I suspected. _

"_It's okay, Kensi." And it is okay. It really is. I just feel kind of peaceful and not all that bothered about anything. Which was probably on account of the fact I've lost about 20% of my blood volume._

"_It's not okay, you stupid bastard. You're going to bleed to death here." The words come out amidst a torrent of sobs._

"_I know. And I've got to tell you something." I don't think I've got much time left, so this had better be quick._

"_I'm not listening. Do you hear me? I'm not listening and you're not dying. Understand?"_

Of course I understood. I knew exactly what was happening. I'd been waiting for this moment for over a year now, knowing in my subconscious that I was living on borrowed time, that each day was a gift. Last year I lay on the floor of a convenience store and waited for the shot that would kill me, only it never came. So the way I look at it, I've had a year's grace. I've had a year that I probably should never have had and I got to spend a lot of that year with Kensi. Actually, all the best parts of that year were spent with Kensi. I thought I would live forever and that there was so much time stretching out ahead of me I could take things slowly. I was wrong. So I had to make good use of the few remaining minute of my allotted span.

"_Kensi – you were such a great partner. You were seriously great."_

"_Shut up, Deeks." She can hardly get the words out: her face is wet with tears, her nose is red and despite everything I think that she has honestly never looked more beautiful, simply because she is Kensi and she is here. And I don't want to die, because I don't want to leave her: I just want to be with her. Is that so much to ask?_

"_I loved working with you, Kensi."_

I remember quite clearly that I wanted to say something more, but suddenly there were familiar voices intruding into my thoughts, and I could feel other people touching me – taking my pulse, pressing their hands down on the wound and the pain was starting to get to the level where it was impossible to concentrate.

"_Hold on. Deeks? Are you listening to me?"_

"_I'm tired, Sam." _

"_Listen to me. Deeks? Open your eyes and listen to me."_

_If I thought Kensi was bossy, then Sam is a thousand times worse. "Okay. But make it quick." This dying business is harder than I thought. Especially when people just won't leave me alone to die in peace._

"_You're not dying." Sam's trying to sound efficient and practical, but I don't really believe him "I've almost managed to stop the bleeding and the ambulance is on the way. They're nearly here. So hold on." _

_I hear what he is saying, and I register that key word – 'almost'. So I'm still bleeding out. Sam is staring at me, and I can't help noticing that his eyes are huge, the pupils vastly dilated. And the pain from the pressure he's exerting on my leg is forcing me back to full consciousness. Bugger._

"_I'm cold." What a stupid thing to say and how pathetic I sound. Of course I'm cold. I'm lying on the sidewalk in a pool of my blood for God's sake, so it stands to reason that I'm cold. Sam pulls off his jacket and tucks it around me. God, that was a nice thing to do._

_Oh God, I think I'm dying and I'm not ready. Oh God – please? I don't want to die._

"_Deeks?" Callen's face swims into view in a highly disconcerting manner. "Kensi needs to say something."_

_As I watch I see his hand go out and kind of grab Kensi, pulling her down so she's kneeling beside me, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, just like some little kid. Only of course her hands are covered in blood – my blood - and she smears it all over her face. It should be funny – but it isn't._

Looking back and trying to be objective, I think this is the moment when I knew things were really bad and I probably wasn't not going to make it. But you can't tell that from the tape, which just shows me lying on the ground, Sam pressing down on my wound, which is still bleeding, Callen standing by my head and is Kensi kneeling at my side. And she is kneeling in my blood, her jeans are soaking up my blood and that's hard to watch.

"_Hey Marty." She's trying to smile and I know she's trying to be brave and that frightens me. It doesn't matter what Sam says or does because seeing Kensi like that scares the living daylights out of me. Not that I reckon I've got too many of these left now. And then she bends forward, puts her hands on either side of my face and kisses me. Really kisses me. And that is the moment I know I'm definitely dying, because Kensi kisses me. And that means I can say anything, because now I don't have to worry about the consequences._

"_Stay with me."_

_I want to say more, to ask her to stay with me always, because she's the one, she's always been the one and if I have to die, then I need her to be there with me, because I'm scared. I'm so damned scared and I don't want to die. I want to live and love and be with Kensi. There are so many things I want to do and so many things I want to say and they are all connected to Kensi. Why did I waste so much time? Why did I ever assume I would have enough time? I should have known that life is short. It's all my fault and I'm going to die and Kensi is never going to know how much I loved her, because it's too hard to talk now. It's hard to breath, to stay awake and I don't think I can actually speak anymore. That has to be a first: Marty Deeks, not able to say a word. Under other circumstances, Kensi would be noting it down in her diary and circling it in red. Only she doesn't keep a diary, does she? According to Kensi, it's a journal. I wonder if she ever wrote about us in it? I'd love to read it, to see the world through her eyes, only now I'm never going to have that chance._

"_I'll be here, Marty. Always." And then her lips move, but no sound comes out, but that's okay. You don't have to be able to lip-read to work out what those three words are._

As I watch the tape, once again I can see Kensi's lips move and I know what she is saying. I'm sitting there watching, like the crappy surveillance tape is the latest Hollywood blockbuster or something, and there's a big, goofy grin on my face. I haven't felt this good since Aunt Tilly gave me fifty bucks for my tenth birthday and I went out and bought a whole load of Superman comic books from this store and just sat in our shed for hours, reading them and living in a world where truth and justice prevailed. I've still got them all, and I might just haul them out and re-read them again when I get back home.

It would be nice if Kensi kissed me again, but this is real life, not make-believe, so what actually happens is that as I watch the paramedics arrive and start doing their thing. Callen helps Kensi up onto her feet and then pulls her into a hug, while Sam sits back on his heels and just stares up at the sky. There must be a fault on the tape because it looks like he wipes his eyes after a couple of minutes. And then Hetty arrives on the scene and takes charge instantly. No change there then. I have this theory that minute Hetty waltzes up to the Pearly Gates, she's going to start telling St Peter how things should be done, and that he's just going read, mark and inwardly digest, as my high school history teacher used to say. And then he's going to do exactly what she says, just like everyone else. As the tape continues, I see Hetty speak briefly to the team and then go over to the paramedics, who are fussing over my prone body. Shortly afterwards, they load me in the ambulance and Hetty clambers in afterwards.

"You came with me?" I look at her in considerable astonishment.

"Of course." Outwardly, Hetty is as cool as a cucumber, but is there just the slightest tremor in her voice? Probably not. She's seen more wounded men and women than I've had haircuts, after all. "When something happens to one of my team, I will always be there." She gives me this look and I kind of get the idea she's thinking about that time she went after the Commescu's – and we went after her.

"I think I've seen enough."

Eric stops the tape and as I lean my head back, trying to make some sense out of everything I've just seen, the doors open and Kensi and Sam walk in. She doesn't look quite so wild-eyed as she did before, but her body is full of tension, like she's barely holding herself in check. No chance of a tender reunion then. I should have known. You would think I'd learn, wouldn't you? Well, maybe I have.

"Nice of you to join us."

Whoops. That was the wrong thing to say. I shouldn't have said that, only I'm still sore about the fact she wasn't here when I watched the tape. What was the big deal after all? I mean, Kensi was there when it all went down, she was right there. So why couldn't she just have watched the tape with me? Was it that much to ask? It's not as if anything was going to come as a big surprise to her.

"Forgive for not wanting to relive something I've been trying to forget."

She's glaring at me and I'm glaring back and it's like normal service has been resumed. Which is a pity, because I don't want things to go back to the way they were, not now I've seen the tape and remembered what happened – and more particularly what Kensi did and said.

By mutual, if unspoken consent, the rest of the team beat a hasty retreat, so that it is just the two of us left in Ops. But we might just as well have been on opposite sides of the country.

"I know what happened."

Kensi just gives me this look, as if I'm mad. I'm giving her a chance and she's just looking at me. Maybe I need to give her a hint?

"I saw what you did. And I remember what you said." I try to smile at her, but it kind of dies on my face.

She shrugs "I thought you were dying."

"Me too."

"I only said these things because I thought you were dying." She's staring hard at me, like she's willing me to disagree or tell her she's wrong. Only I can't do that.

"I know." Of course I know that. I just wanted to believe there was something more. I didn't die back then, but it feels as if a little bit of me is dying right now.

"It didn't mean anything."

"I know." I always knew that. But just for a little while I'd kind of fooled myself into thinking there might be. It's as if someone has suddenly pulled all the oxygen out of the room and I just want to get away from here. I'm getting pretty good on the crutches now and manage to get out of the chair without looking like an eighty year-old whose just had both hips replaced.

"So we're clear about that?" Kensi asks.

"Perfectly clear." I stop and turn around to take one last look at her. "And, Kensi? I'm sorry."

That takes her completely by surprise. "What for?"

"For disappointing you by not dying." And then the doors open and I walk out.

* * *

><p><em>Honestly. I despair of them. And so does slushy plot bunny. But he's going to start interfering any minute now. Kind of like a furry cupid with buck teeth.<em>


	9. Chapter 9

My dramatic exit is slightly hampered by the fact that I'm on crutches, but I do my best to stalk out with as much dignity as possible. Until it comes to the stairs. That's when all my plans fall apart. Have you ever tried to go up or down stairs while on crutches? If the answer to that question is 'no', then the following should be sufficient reason for you to make sure you exercise enough caution to make sure you're never sufficiently impaired to be limping along and supporting our full body weihgt on two sticks that jab into your arm pits and give you callouses on the palms of your hands. And if it is 'yes', then it is going to bring back some memories of just how difficult and downright tedious life is when you've got one leg out of action. Basically, stairs are nature's way of reminding you that we are given two legs for a good reason. The minute one leg is out of action, stairs present a unique challenge and make you look like a complete idiot with the speed and dexterity of a snail on methedrine. It goes like this: you take the weight on your good leg, then move both crutches down one step, bend the good leg and gingerly lower your bad leg onto the step, at the same time as transferring all your body weight onto the crutches and then bringing your good leg down. Got that? And then you repeat the whole performance over and over again. It's tedious in the extreme, and if you've not got an audience, then you're much better to just sit down, stick your bad leg out in front of you and slide downstairs on your butt. Needless to say, I do not do that on this occasion, with the result that by the time I finally reached the main floor of the Mission I have a rapt audience watching my every move, like I'm giving a masterclass in crutch technique or something. If all else fails, I could have a great career on YouTube, I guess.

"Where's Kensi?" Nell asks. She's got a lot better since she joined us, but there are still moments when she's the soul of tactlessness.

"In Ops. I guess."

Sam lets out a sigh. "I did my best." He looks deeply apologetic, like he's failed me or something.

"I know. But this is Kensi, right?" I spot my messenger-bag sitting by my desk, where I'd dumped it the day I was shot and sling it over my shoulders. "Anyone up to give me a ride home?" I just want to get out of here: the looks of sympathy and understanding are more than I can cope with at the moment.

"What about Kensi?"

"What about her, Callen?" As far as I'm concerned, she's made her position pretty clear. How much more punishment am I supposed to take?

He tries to keep a neutral expression on his face, and then gives up the struggle. "She's still sulking?"

"That's not entirely fair, Mr Callen." I sometimes wonder if Hetty has ever considered running for Secretary General of the United Nations: she'd be bloody good at it.

"What would you call it, Hetty?" he challenges.

Hetty straightens her spine. "I would say that Ms Blye is attempting to come to terms with recent events."

Well, she going to have to stand in line, because I've already staked my claim. "Snap. With bells on." I try not to sound bitter, but I'm pretty sure I'm not convincing anybody.

Colour me stupid, I was kind of hoping that having some time-out and beating the hell out of the punch-bag in the gym might have calmed Kensi down, but clearly I couldn't have been more wrong. I still wasn't sure if she was a) mad at me for getting shot, b) mad at herself for not getting shot, c) mad at herself for saying all that stuff or d) mad at me for not dying. Or even all of the above. Since when did my life become a multiple choice exercise? Anyway, I've had enough and I just want to get out of here, because I'm fed up with people staring at me like I'm something to be pitied. "So who's going to give me that ride?"

"I will. If you think you can manage to get into the Aston Martin?" Callen says generously. That car is amazing. It beats mine hollow. I try not to be bitter about the fact that he's got the Aston and Sam has the Dodge Challenger and I've got a crappy Chevy Malibu. How does that work? In the right light, I can look kind of like a rock star, can't I? I'd look good in an Aston. Or Bentley. Or just about anything except my Chevy. Or am I totally deluding myself?

"I'll manage." That was kind of like a metaphor for my whole life and I'm getting fed up with just managing to get by. I want something more. I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's time for a change? There's still the law to fall back on. I worked damned hard to get that degree and it would be a shame to waste it. Plus after a couple of years I'd be earning ten times what I do here. I brood over this as we go out to the parking lot and have just about convinced myself to call it a day as far as law enforcement is concerned.

"Don't let it get to you," Callen says, as he pulls away slowly, after having first of all pulled the passenger seat as far back as possible to accommodate my bad leg.

"It's kind of hard. So I'm thinking about just getting away from it altogether," I confess.

"As in taking a vacation?"

"Not exactly. More like a permanent vacation away from NCIS and LAPD and all the other alphabet soup organisations, if you want the truth."

"Oh." As I watch, his fingers tighten convulsively around the steering wheel. "Don't rush into anything, Deeks. We'd miss you."

"Not everyone would."

He sighs, and it sounds as if the noise comes all the way up from his boots. "That's not true. You know that and I know that."

"Isn't it a pity Kensi doesn't? Come on, you were there. You know what happened. And now she's acting like… I don't know what she's acting like. But I've had it. I've given up trying to understand her."

"That's not true," he says comfortably, like he knows everything. He knows nothing. "She just needs a bit of time."

"You're not listening, Callen. This isn't just about Kensi – it's about me too. I've given her time. I've given her as much time as I can and now I've got to accept things the way they are and start to move on with my life."

He looks across at me. "You're really serious, aren't you?"

"Deadly serious. There's nothing like a near-death experience to put everything into perspective. Life's short, Callen. I don't wake up one day and find I'm sixty and Kensi's still trying to make up her mind and life has just passed me by. What more is it going to take? And how come she's more willing to make a commitment to me when she's thinks I'm going to die than when I'm alive? That doesn't make sense."

"Don't look at me for advice when it comes to women. And don't give up."

"It's not giving up. It's finally acknowledging what I should have realised a long time ago." I can feel my teeth clenching together, so hard that it feels they might shatter. "I'll be fine, Callen. It's not the end of the world after all." It just feels like it is.

"You and Kensi… we were all so sure."

Tell me about it. They think I don't know they all referred to us as 'Densi'? Do they think I'm completely blind and deaf or something? And if they were sure, how do they think I felt?

"There isn't a 'Deeks and Kensi'. There never was and now I see there never will be."

"Never say never, Deeks. I learnt that a long time ago."

I have just enough self-control not so say 'and look where you are'. Callen and I – we're not that different: both of us afraid to commit, and yet longing to try to create the one thing that was singularly missing in our childhoods - namely a meaningful relationship. He drops me off at my apartment block and offers to come up, but I just want to be alone. I've had enough with talking. For once in my life I feel like I'm all talked out.

* * *

><p>We'll fast forward through the next bit, because you already know how slow and tedious negotiating stairs on crutches is. I will say one thing: my pecs, biceps and triceps have never had such an intense workout and they're starting to look pretty impressive. Not quite up to the level of Arnie in his prime, but then he got to the stage that he was so muscle-bound he always looked peculiar in anything more than a posing pouch and although we've got a relaxed dress code at work, that would be taking things a bit too far I think. When I get in, Monty rushes up, with an expectant look on his face. Fair enough, it's been hours since he was last out and I can't blame him, even if I feel like strangling him. Why can't we train dogs to use litter trays like cats? And why do I live on the fourth floor?<p>

"Hey there, boy. Did you miss me?"

Monty gives me a look, as if he's saying 'can we skip all this until I've peed?' and I go to get his lead, because it's obvious he can't hold on much longer. When I get back, Kensi is standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" That's rude, but I thought we'd said all we had to say and I'm in no mood for a return match after she KO'd me back at the Mission.

"Walking your dog. Or do you have a problem with that?"

So this is what we've come to: confrontation and barely disguised hostility. How the hell did that happen? I'd love to tell her that I do have a problem – and that she is the problem, but the truth is I'm just so relieved that I don't have to go all the way downstairs, walk Monty and then climb all the way back up that I'd just about sell my soul right now.

"I've not got a problem. You feel free to help yourself." And then why not come back and trample over me some more? Put on a pair of hob-nailed boots and do a really good job, why don't you?

Monty is sitting down, looking first at Kensi and then at me. He looks more depressed than normal, which is saying something. It's not his fault – he really can't help it. Monty looks miserable even when he's really happy. He's just got that sort of a face.

"You don't have to sound quite so grateful." She clips on the lead and stomps away, Monty slinking along at her side, with his ears back and his tail between his legs. Great. Now both of them are making me feel guilty. Way to go. I wonder who else I can manage to piss off today?

I was kind of hoping to go and have a shower in the hope of washing away some of the gloom that is hanging over me like a cloud, but there's no point in doing that until Kensi comes back. And I definitely don't want her walking in on and catching me at even more of a disadvantage than I already am, so I settle for just collapsing onto the couch, propping my leg up on a cushion and searching for my book, hoping to pass at least some of the day in a constructive manner. It's not in my bag, but instead there is a magazine, folded open at a page emblazoned with the banner headline _'Fifteen Ways to Please Your Partner'_.

No, it isn't that sort of magazine. It isn't even my magazine: I've never seen it before in my life. I've no idea where it came from. And even if I did buy that sort of magazine, I certainly wouldn't take it into work with me, where Kensi could find it and then ritually sacrifice me. This article was all about how to make a relationship work and I started to skim through it and then went back and read it more carefully.

Okay, she's not that sort of partner, we don't have that sort of a relationship, but we do have something. And that's better than nothing. I'd probably be a fool to throw whatever we do have away without giving it one last chance. And I don't really want to go back to practicing law. For a start, I'd have to wear a shirt and tie every day. Not to mention shaving regularly. What do I have to lose? The article is written by a woman, which is a good start. She's got the inside track, after all. What do I know about women, far less Kensi? I might just pick up some pointers about where I've been going wrong. So I started reading from the top again.

_**Talk.**__  
>Talking may seem so basic, but believe it or not it is one of the most neglected aspects of a relationship. Sometimes one partner can take the other for granted or maybe they are just too tired at the end of the day to talk, but remember - talking need only be a recap of your day and it could lead to other discussions. Talking is the foundation of every relationship, so always remember to say something. <em>

What? What a load of rubbish. This woman has no idea what she's talking about. Kensi always says I talk too much and this is the top tip in the article? To talk more? Mind you, thinking about it, I remember that most women always want to talk about relationships. Usually when you're trying to watch the football. The thing is that Kensi is like most women. And anyway, we don't have a relationship in the first place. According to Kensi we have a 'thing'. Only she doesn't want to talk about that either.

Okay. Take a deep breath and think about this calmly and logically, Deeks. You can do this. Just some light conversation and then maybe you can move on from there? For all I know, sh'se secretly longing for you to make the first move. Things can't get much worse than they already are, can they? Oh God, I hope not. Maybe all I have to do is give her the right opening?

"Hey, Kensi." I flash her a smile. "Thanks for walking Monty. That was really great of you, 'cos I was shattered and he was desperate to go out."

She almost does a double take at my cheery demeanour. "That's okay."

"He really likes you. And I've just realised that I never thanked you for staying here and taking care of him." I look at her expectantly. Come on, Kensi – give me a break, won't you? Can't you see I'm doing my best here?

"That's okay." Kensi is standing with her back against the wall, her hands in front of herself in a defensive position, like she's waiting for me punch her or something.

Wait a minute. Doesn't she get what I'm trying to do here? I'm not trying to attack her – I just want to try to make sense of things. Of our 'thing'. Maybe I need to stop being quite so subtle. "Watching that tape, it made me realise a whole lot of things. Like how much I've got to be grateful for. Like you taking care of me. I know I could have died back there."

That was the wrong thing to say, because Kensi seems to sort of crumple a bit; she slumps back against the wall with a defeated air. "I know that. Don't you think I know that? And if you died, then it would have been all my fault. Of course I know that, Deeks. I can't stop thinking about it."

What? She's still beating herself up about the fact that I got shot and she didn't? This doesn't make sense. And the look on her face is killing me. "Kensi – don't do this. Please don't do this." I can't stand to see her look like this, to hear her beat herself up over something that wasn't her fault. I can't bear to see how much she's hurting and not be able to comfort her. If this was some romantic novel, then I'd be striding across the room manfully, and crushing her against my broad chest while she wept tears of joy. But I've got a bum leg and I'm stuck on this couch.

"I can't stand knowing that you nearly died because you saved me, alright? I can't stop thinking about how I couldn't do anything to save you." She's so fierce, but she's directing all her anger at herself this time and that's wrong. It's so wrong it's unbelievable.

"But you did save me."

"No, that was Sam. I wasn't strong enough or I wasn't pressing in the right place – whatever. You got shot because of me and then I nearly let you die." She finally looks at me. "Face it – I let you down, Marty."

"No, you didn't let me down. And you never would." I stretch out my hand and pray that she'll take it." You want to know the truth, Kensi? You were the reason I'm still here. Because you were there when it mattered and what you said, well that was the reason I wanted to keep on living. I was just about ready to give up before that. So you're the reason I'm here. And, just for the record, I'd do it all over again. Because I don't want to live in a world without Kensi Blye."

Now, somewhere during that speech Kensi came across the room, and let her fingers touch mine, and I grabbed on to them so tightly, because I knew how close I'd come to losing her and I didn't ever want to let her go again.

Well, the article said it was good to talk, and I've done that. I just wonder if I've said enough – or even if I've said too much, because Kensi's sitting beside me with this sort of stunned expression on her face.

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I definitely do. But what about you, Kensi?" I need to hear it from her, once and for all. And if she tells me there's nothing there, then I'm going to have to take that like a man and move on. After getting disgracefully drunk, falling over and weeping into Monty's fur.

_**2. Listen.**__  
>If talking is not your strong point, then listen to what your lover has to say. Perhaps she needs to communicate with you or get some things off her chest, or just vent about a lousy day. In any case, listening is a very important thing, because it shows that you care about what your loved one is thinking. <em>

So now it's up to her. I've waited a long time to hear what Kensi has to say about us.

* * *

><p><em>So now it's up to Kensi...<em>

_'15 Ways to be a Better Partner' courtesy of WIS news 10, South Carolina._


	10. Chapter 10

_Well, they're talking at last - and that's got to be good, right?_

* * *

><p>Kensi sighs deeply and I can hear all her pent-up anguish in that one sound. Believe me, I feel terrible about putting her through this, but I have to know how she feels. I've put all my cards down on the table and it's her turn now. For better or for worse, we're finally going to have this conversation.<p>

"You're my partner, Deeks. And do you know what that means – in practical terms? It's like being married to you and the job, both at the same time. I know more about you than I've ever known about any man. I know how you like your coffee and what shop you like it from, I could pick out a shirt for you and know you'll like it and I even know what size of jeans you wear. I know exactly what you look like and act like at three am in the morning when we've been on an all-night stakeout. I even know where your dog likes to go for a walk and why it's not a good idea to feed him raw liver. I know about your comic book collection, the one you've got hidden at the back of your closet. I know about your fear of snakes and how you love children. I even know a bit about your childhood and your peculiar family."

I've still got hold of one of her hands but with the other Kensi is plucking fretfully at her jeans. "And now I even know what you look like when you think you're going to die." Her voice breaks slightly when she says that and her whole body shudders.

"Sorry about that." I try to make a joke, but it falls flat.

"I know how I feel when I think you're going to die too," Kensi adds. "That was pretty much the last straw. You see, now I know everything I need to know about you. And that's difficult for me. I look back and it seems like everyone in my life hid things from me and I've lived a life of half-truths. My mom lied about why she left my dad and he lied about what he was actually doing with his job. It took me nearly fifteen years to find out the truth. And then Jack: well, he never said he was going to leave. I had no idea I made life so awful for him that he felt he had no option but to simply get up one morning and go. He's probably still alive, he's probably out there somewhere and living his life and enjoying himself – but I don't know anything about that. Jack just walked out of my life and he took a whole chunk of my life away with him and I never heard anything from him, not ever again."

She doesn't have to tell me that she's scared of making a commitment, or giving away too much of her heart, because I always knew that. All I ever hoped was that in time I could get her to see that I was different and that she could trust me.

"Jack was an idiot and he didn't deserve you." I'm pretty sure that I don't deserve her either, but I want her so much that I don't care. I want her and I want to be with her and I want to make her happy more than anything. There is nobody like Kensi and I know that there can never be anyone else for me except Kensi: it's that simple.

I'm still lying on the couch, and Kensi is sitting bolt upright beside me. So I reach out and pull her down and she doesn't resist, but just stretches out beside me, cradling her head on her arm. We're lying together, almost like we're spooning and it feels so natural, so incredibly right. My arm is looped around her waist as she continues to talk. It's just easier this way, I think, so that Kensi doesn't have to look at me when she finally opens up her soul and reveals all the fears and anxieties, all the things that make her the complicated, frustrating and utterly incredible person that she is.

"You don't deserve me either, Deeks. You certainly didn't deserve this."

Well, I know what she's talking about, but actually, just lying here, with Kensi lying next to me feels so fucking great that I really don't care about anything else. I'm beginning to think we might just be able to work this out. And I know for certain that my sex drive has kicked back in with a vengeance. The scent of her shampoo is tickling my nostrils and I can feel the small bump of her belly-button ring underneath my fingers and the combination is starting to drive me wild. Down boy. This is really bad timing. I force my mind back onto the subject.

"We're partners, Kensi. I'd do anything for you. Anything. You don't even have to ask, because I'll just charge on in there, whether you want me to or not." I gently stroke her hair and that action exposes the nape of her neck, and I want to kiss her so badly. It takes all my will-power not to do anything, but I don't want to risk breaking this moment.

"My knight in shining armour." She adjusts her position slightly, easing her butt into my groin and it's like I've just been hit by lightning.

"That's me."

I'm joking, of course, but that sounds a whole lot better than _The_ _Shaggy DA_, after all. Hey, you think I don't know what Sam and Callen don't call me behind my back? It's probably because they're just jealous, of course. I mean, I've got great hair – everybody says so – and they don't. In fact, Sam doesn't have any hair at all. It's a great image – the chivalrous knight and it does make me think though. Does Kensi really see me as her hero? Really? Me? That's kind of mind-blowing, but as long as it doesn't turn out that Kensi is my _Belle Dame Sans Merci_, then it's just fine with me. I'm beginning to think that things might just be looking up for us. And it's about time.

So I reach out and take my courage in both hands. "Why don't you tell me the rest? About what happened after I was shot?" I figure it might be easier when we're lying like this, when she feels safe and secure and neither of us have to look at the other person. Maybe like this we might finally start to tell the truth – the whole truth.

"Okay."

For a moment I can feel the tension creep back into her body. "Kensi – it really is okay. I'm here and I'm fine. We made it."

"Yes – but I didn't know that then." Her grip on my hand tightens. "I was so scared…"

"Tell me about it," I invite, and hug her a little closer.

* * *

><p>Kensi ran along the hospital corridor, hearing the sound of her steps echo off the walls, as the blood thundered through her veins and a thousand thoughts scrambled around inside her brain.<p>

This wasn't supposed to happen. It was never supposed to be like this. How many times was her partner going to be shot instead of her? Was she some kind of jinx? Which ever way she looked at it, she was downright hazardous to Deeks' health and sooner or later he was going to run out of luck.

"Hetty!" The small, self-contained woman was sitting staring into space, but at the sound of Kensi's urgent cry she was jerked out of her reverie and tried to compose her face into a suitable expression as Kensi sped towards her, looking as if all the hounds of hell were panting at her heels.

"Where is he? Why aren't you with him? Is he alright?" The words came tumbling out in a torrent, tumbling over one another. "Please tell me Marty's still alive? He can't be dead."

"Sit down and take a deep breath." Hetty gestured to the seat next to her own. "He's still alive. They're trying to stop the bleeding right now. And they're transfusing him, of course." She didn't deem it necessary to add that Deeks had nearly bled out, and that his blood volume was at such a critically low level that they were pushing blood through veins in both arms. Despite all her protests, Hetty had not been permitted to stay in the ER as the medical personnel battled to stablise him.

"He can't die," Kensi said fiercely. "I won't let him die." She looked down at her hands and then at her jeans, stained and stiff with blood. There was so much blood. There was far too much blood. How could somebody bleed so much and still be alive? "I feel like Lady Macbeth," she added. Would she ever be able to wash away all the blood, and the associated stains on her soul? The guilt was invading every cell of her being, along with the all-encompassing fear.

"Kensi – this wasn't your fault. You were both just unlucky."

"No, Deeks was unlucky. Because look at me – I'm here and I'm just fine." Her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

"I beg to disagree. You are not fine. Not by any stroke of the imagination." Not caring about the blood, Hetty took hold of her agent's hand. "Look at me, Kensi. You are distraught. I know what it is like to see your partner like that…"

"It's not because he's my partner. It's because he's Marty. I'm mean, he's Deeks."

Hetty smiled. "I know what you mean. It is rather easy to get very fond of Mr Deeks. Or even Marty."

"What will I do if he dies, Hetty?" she beseeched.

"I don't know, my dear." There was a finality about those words that broke through Kensi's confusion and terror. If Hetty didn't know – then the world was officially in chaos. Hetty always knew what to do. She was always composed and pragmatic, she never gave up. She always did something – she didn't just sit and wait. And now she was sitting helplessly outside the ER, unable to do anything, or say anything that might make this situation a little less hellish. All she could do was sit and wait. It was a shock to realise that Hetty was every bit as fallible and human and impotent as everyone else, and that only underlined the gravitas of the situation.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Hetty was not quite sure what any of them would do if Deeks died. She hoped they would find the strength to go on, but she had her doubts. Just as much as Kensi, Hetty was shouldering the blame. This was her team, running an operation she was in control of and the shooting had happened right outside the Mission. She had known how tired Deeks and Kensi both were after working non-stop for nearly twenty-four hours, and yet she had let them continue, deliberately exposing them to risk. It was all her fault. If only she had sent them home, or perhaps had ordered breakfast to be delivered and insisted they had taken a break, had a nap for an hour. If only, if only, if only… Hetty knew only too well where the buck stopped and she was willing to accept the responsibility. She sat with her head bowed and her hands clasped and begged for forgiveness. _Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa._

The thing about life, she thought, was that it was always full of surprises. Some were pleasant, others less so. Life did not come with a manual that told you how to trouble-shoot problems, so most of the time you just had to make it up as you went along and hope to God you were doing the right thing. This time she'd made a huge error in judgement and now Marty Deeks was paying the price. The awful thing about life was that it didn't give you a chance to scrub things clean and start all over again. There was guarantee that when you got things wrong you would ever be given the opportunity to set the right again. That was just the way it was. That was the awful thing about life, the thing you never got used to – that sometimes it all went so hideously wrong in the blink of an eye and there wasn't a damn thing you could do about it. Life could be so short and so terribly painful, and yet paradoxically it could be so wonderful. Perhaps you could only experience the true beauty when you also knew you terrible that beauty could also be?

There was nothing they could do, except to wait. And waiting is always easier if you have a fellow companion to walk along the lonely road in fellowship at your side. So they sat together, side by side in silent communion, each woman cocooned in her own thoughts and prayers, while the doctors fought to save Deeks.

* * *

><p>"It was… bad?" I ask, not quite able to find the words.<p>

Kensi shivers. "Bad? It was… it was one of the worst experiences of my life. Just having to sit there, and wait and not be able to do anything. Not being able to be there for you."

"I don't remember anything. The last thing I remember is lying on the sidewalk and you leaning over me and…" And I don't want to tempt fate by reminding Kensi that she had said she loved me. Those were extreme circumstances and I can hardly hold her to something she said when she thought I was dying. Anyway, maybe she only said it because she thought it was what I wanted to hear? No, if Kensi is ever going to say that again, I want it to be when she's in my arms and looking straight at me.

"They clamped and repaired the artery in the OR, along with sticking as much blood into you as fast as possible. Then they rushed you off for an immediate CAT scan, on account of the fact you were unconscious. And then after that, it was off to the operating theatre, to repair your leg properly."

I try to take all this in. It sounds pretty horrific, if you want the truth. It's hard to think of all that happening to me, but at least I was unconscious and therefore clueless. Kensi, on the other hand, had to sit there and wait and worry.

"And you were there? The whole time?"

"I was there," she agrees and then twists her head around to look at me. "I was there the whole time. Where else would I be?" And the sincerity shines out of her face. What does it matter if she couldn't watch the stupid tape with me? Kensi was there when it mattered.

"Thank you." Call me stuck, smitten – whatever, but I've got this feeling that is what made all the difference. "Thank you for always being there for me."

_**3. Appreciate**__.  
>Say thank you - a lot. Don't take your partner - and all of the things he does for you - for granted. Try not to forget to let the other know how much you care. Love is a rare thing and always make sure your honey knows you are so happy to have them in your life. <em>

Kensi moves so that we are now lying facing each other. "It was the least I could do. I've never thanked you for saving my life, have I?"

"You don't need to."

Our faces are only inches apart and I'm staring deep into her eyes, her dark, mysterious eyes that seem much softer than I can ever remember seeing them before.

"Thank you for saving my life, Marty. Both times. And thank you for always being there for me."

And we are both here, right now and I don't think I can manage to go another minute without kissing her.

"I'm not going anywhere, Kensi. I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere without you."

"I wouldn't let you. I'm not letting you out of my sight." Kensi reaches up and pushes back my hair. "Why do you think I've been staying here and keeping you under 24 hour a day watch?"

I shrug. Well, I can't exactly say it was because I thought Hetty had told her too. Kensi probably isn't as intimidated by Hetty as I am.

"You drive me crazy," she says. "You drive me up the wall and round the bend. You make me so mad and you make me so happy and you have me so I don't know if I'm coming or going or even meeting myself on the way back. You came into my life and turned it upside down and inside out and just left me reeling."

"Sorry."

"Would you stop apologising?" Kensi grabs hold of a chunk of my hair and tugs, but she does it gently and she's laughing. "I'm trying to be serious and tell you something here. Something important."

"Go on then – tell me." I don't quite dare to hope, but I can't help myself.

Kensi doesn't say anything. Not one single word. Instead, she keeps a firm grip of my hair and pulls my head towards hers and she kisses me. And I kiss her back. Well, they say that actions speak louder than words, don't they?

_**4. Share.  
><strong>__We learned in kindergarten that friends share, so why not share with your significant other - in every sense of the word! Share your lunch, your feelings, your theories. It's a fact that sharing brings people closer._

* * *

><p><em>Slushy plot bunny makes a welcome return. At least I hope he's welcome? You never know, randy might just hop along in his wake at some point.<em>


	11. Chapter 11

We kiss - and it is a great kiss. It's like an atomic bomb is going off inside my head and then reverberating right through my whole body. Kissing Kensi is blowing me away with the sheer wonder of it all. It's like I'm a little kid all over again, believing in magic because now I know that dreams really do come true, because here I am lying her on this sofa with Kensi in my arms, kissing her and feeling like I'm already halfway to heaven. You want the truth? Well, it's quite simple: she fills my heart with joy.

As kisses go (and I've kissed a few girls in my time, so I'm a pretty good judge) this one is epic. I have to confess that once or twice I've thought vaguely about kissing Kensi… Okay, I lied. I've spent hours thinking about kissing Kensi (and even longer fantasising about doing a whole lot more) in great detail, but the reality is so much better. Kissing Kensi is unbelievably good. She's soft and warm, and she's feisty and firey and she's just so damned alive and passionate. It's like there are electric sparks flying between us and what starts out soft and tentative gets deeper and more passionate, pulling me in until I'm lost in her sweetness. I don't want this kiss to ever end, but when she makes this little moan in the back of her throat, I have to pull away before I do something stupid. Nobody has ever got to me in the way that Kensi does.

Kensi smiles at me, a slow, slightly sleepy smile. I'm seeing a whole new side of her, a part of her she's kept hidden for a long time and I reach out to ease her hair back from her face. "That was even better that the last time. Our first time."

That was when I was sprawled on the sidewalk, bleeding merrily away. Truth be told, I was kind of pre-occupied with not dying when she kissed me back then, so I didn't do a whole lot to add to the process. So this time I'd been making up for a wasted opportunity.

"It was our only time," she corrects. "How about we make it three – just for luck?"

She gets no objections from me. Quite the contrary. Who in their right mind would get an invitation like that and turn it down. Kissing Kensi is like falling into this big pile of swansdown and just sinking into the sweetest softness you ever dreamt of. I feel so lucky loving her. I feel like I'm the luckiest man on earth when I'm kissing her and she's kissing me and it just feels like all my birthdays have come at once. Her tongue is like molten fire and I can feel the flames licking at me, burning me up inside. All of a sudden I just want her, I need her so badly and I pull her on top of me. And that's when I know that I'll never be able to get enough of Kensi, not if we live for another thousand years. She just has to smile at me to make my day, and when I look at her, lying on my chest and smiling at me with that wicked look on her lips, I wonder what else living is for, if it's not for moments like this.

Kensi's hair is falling forward, so that it's like two dark, silky curtains sweeping down on either side of my face, enclosing us in a secret, scented world nobody else can ever discover. I seem to be unconditionally hers – but I think I maybe always have been. It's just that I wouldn't admit it before. Maybe I was scared, wondering just who she was, because Kensi can seem like a new girl every day, always keeping me guessing, but that doesn't matter anymore. Nothing else matters now except this moment. It's like she's the drug I've been craving. All the rest doesn't bother me because I'm far too busy loving her. And then Kensi does this little shimmy with her hips that under other circumstances would have me groaning and begging for mercy. Well, I am kind of begging for mercy, but not in that way.

"Oh shit!" Yup, that got me right where it hurts. No, not there. Thank God. In my leg wound. The one I'd almost forgotten about during the last ten minutes or so.

Kensi leaps up, kind of like a cat that's had a pint of milk spilt right over it. You can tell I speak from experience, can't you? That really wasn't my fault and it wasn't like I'd done it on purpose anyway. II actually quite liked that cat, only it had been rubbing around my legs as I was preparing some oatmeal at a girlfriend's place a couple of years back. I was ignoring its increasing frantic meows, and the stupid beast decided to take matters into its own paws and kind of leapt up at me and tried to grab on. Luckily, I was wearing my jeans (even if I wasn't wearing a whole lot else) on account of the fact that hot oatmeal kind of splutters. I've never forgotten what happened to Al Green, which should be a warning to us all… Anyway, you couldn't exactly blame me for drenching the cat in milk, although my soon-to-be ex-girlfriend did. It wasn't that big a deal, given the milk was cold and anyway, what else are you supposed to do when you've got a cat that's not just sticking its claws into your junk but swinging its entire body weight from your scrotum? I thought I was quite restrained, given the extreme circumstances. Funnily enough, my girlfriend disagreed. Which was how I'd found myself standing outside her apartment at eight in the morning, wearing only the aforementioned jeans, nursing my junk and cursing all cats. Thanks, Al – without your example, that would have been even more embarrassing than it already was. Not that I said any of this to Kensi, on account of the fact I was trying not to scream like a little kid in the fun house at a county fair.

"Oh my God – I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" She was wringing her hands together and looking incredibly guilty.

Breathe deeply, Deeks. You can do this. "Just give me a minute." It wasn't her fault, after all.

Thirty seconds ago we were this close to taking that final step, and now she's standing there, and I'm lying here on the sofa, gasping for breath like a fish hauled out of the stream and wondering what the hell just happened. There are times when I am almost certain that somebody up there really doesn't like me, and today is definitely one of those times.

"I'm just so darn clumsy at times," she mourns.

"Kensi – stop hyperventilating. I'm fine." I check the leg of my jeans surreptitiously, just to make sure, but there's no blood. There is a God after all. The only thing is that my leg is aching like fun. It feels exactly like someone has whacked a baseball into my thigh, so hard that it's embedded itself right into my flesh.

"Really? You're sure?" She gives me a tentative smile and I realise that is all it takes. She just has to smile to blow my cares away.

"I'm sure."

I'm also sure she's the one; but then Kensi's always been the one. It just took me a while to realise that, because we'd left too much unsaid for too long and it kind of built up into this stupid barrier between us that we could work out how to knock down. If I'm truthful about things, I pretty much made my mind up at a glance when I saw Kensi for the very first time. There was just something there, like we had this connection, even if neither of us trusted the other at the time. Well, given that she was calling herself Tracey, and I was masquerading as Jason, can you blame me? With names like those, it sounded like we'd come straight off the set of some TV show back in the 1960s. So we started off, each one pretending to be someone else and it's taken us a while to work out exactly who we are and how we feel about things.

"You're too good at getting yourself all messed up without me adding to it," she says ruefully.

I'm so tempted to say she can kiss me better, but I don't want to push things, or ruin everything by saying the wrong thing. "We've all got to be good at something. Mine's getting into trouble." I'm also a dab hand at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and blowing things right out of the water, which is why I'm being so careful right now.

Kensi looks at me sideways. "I could help you there."

Okay, it looks like I didn't need to be quite so cautious after all. God, I love it when she talks like that. That's the thing about Kensi: she can be sophisticated and elegant, or she can get right down there in the dirt and scrap it out with the best of them. It's like being with a new girl every single day and that's incredibly exciting. I'm definitely excited and that's a fact. I kind of think Kensi's noticed that.

Now, you will notice that all the ingredients for a really interesting encounter are set in place, and I was kind of aware of that myself. It was like my version of all the planets coming into alignment and any moment now I was expecting to hear choirs of angels start to sing. Which shows you what I know. There was no celestial music for me, because it's at this moment that my stomach gives this unmistakable gurgle and Kensi immediately looks at her watch and does this little jump of surprise.

"It's nearly four. How did it get so late?"

Errr – maybe because we were kind of preoccupied and I wasn't exactly thinking too clearly? Funnily enough, when I'm getting it on, food is sort of the last thing on my mind. "Search me."

From the look on Kensi's face, she'd like to do just that, but sadly she restrains herself. There is such a thing as being too conscientious, you know. "You need to eat something. Don't think I didn't notice you've had to use a tighter notch in your belt. And even then they're hanging so low I can see the waistband of your boxers."

Funnily enough, the only notch I was thinking of was thinking of was the one I hoped to add to the bedpost. "So I dropped a couple of pounds? It's no big deal."

Kensi fixes me with a basilisk stare. It's quite incredible how long she can go without blinking. I must remember to check the Guinness Book of Records, because she could be a serious contender. "More like ten," she says. Who am I to disagree? She seems to have been studying my body in considerable detail and that gives me a hell of a kick.

_**5. Compliment.**__  
>Don't forget to give a nice compliment every now and then. "Love your sweater", "Your hair looks so good today" and "Have you lost weight?" are all good choices. Make up a new one everyday - by looking for the positive things in your mate, you will soon forget to see the flaws. And you will also make your partner's day!<em>

"How about we order some takeout?" I suggest, as my stomach makes more protesting noises, like it thinks someone has cut my throat. Now I come to think about it, I'm starving. Takeout is good – well, actually normally it's pretty bad for you, on account of all the salt, MSG etc – but who cares right now? Takeout is quick and convenient, and you can eat from the boxes in bed – if you're that way inclined. Which I am – obviously. What's not to love about takeout?

"Or I could go get us some beer and burgers?" Kensi's trying not to smile, but her lips are starting to curve and it's official: like I said before, she just has to smile to make my day; my week; my month - or even my year. My leg is still sore but she just has to smile to blow my cares away.

I know where she's going with that suggestion, and I've got something to add. "And then we could watch _America's Top Model_?"

I'm joking, of course. After all, what self-respecting, red-blooded American male wants to watch a show about hot women, who spend half the time in their underwear? Of course I watch it - I just don't talk about it. But it's just that last year, Kensi got smacked pretty hard on the jaw during an op and I kind of went ballistic and swung at the guy, nearly knocking him into next week and smashing my own hand up in the process. Not that I cared much at the time. Nobody hits my partner and gets away with it: not then and not ever. Later on, I came round to her place, and we spent the evening together, watching her favourite show. Kensi normally has lousy taste in entertainment, but quite frankly I was so glad she was alive and in one piece that I would happily have sat and watched paint dry if that made her happy. The way things ended up, we actually had a pretty great evening. And that makes me hopeful that tonight might be even better. Who cares about seeing aspiring models in their underwear when I'm going to see Kensi model hers?

Sticking her chin out, Kensi rubs her jaw reflectively, and I know she's thinking about that evening too. "That's the best you can come up with?"

"Honey, just you wait till you see what I can come up." Come on – how could I possibly not say that? It was just too much temptation and I can never resist temptation. Why would I want to?

"Hold that thought – until I get back with the food." She drops a kiss on my lips and then turns to leave and my eyes are glued to her ass as she goes out. Kensi has the greatest ass. No, scrub that. Kensi is just the greatest, period.

I can hold that thought – at least I think I can. I've waited this long, after all so what's another few minutes? Our love was unintentional, but it's always been unconditional – it's just that it took us a bit of time to figure it all out. And we never really fought it anyway – we were just kind of in denial about it all. So we were slow learners? So what. We've got there now and I just want to keep going. So I can definitely hold that thought.

As I've got a bit of time to kill, and my leg is still doing that dull-throbbing, aching kind of thing, it seems like a good time to have a shower in the hope that maybe the hot water will sooth it a bit. Pain-pills are out of the question, as they tend to react badly with beer. I found that one out a long time ago (when I was in high school, if you really want to know) and the results were predictably messy. Anyway, beer works well as an anaesthetic, I've found, so I'll give the drugs a miss.

So I go and stand under the shower and let the water beat down on my head while I try to figure out how things can turn around so quickly and how my life has just gone from totally crappy to fucking great in the space of an hour. If it took me getting shot for both of us to finally realise what was blindingly obvious, then that's just fine. That's just the way things happen and I'm okay with that. I'm more than okay. I'm feeling better and more alive than I have done for months, maybe years.

Afterwards, I run the clippers over my beard. Now, I come in for a lot of teasing about my appearance – and it's mostly good-natured, I know that. Heck, Callen gets teased about being short and Sam gets a load of comments about his shiny chrome-dome, so I guess my facial hair is fair game. And we all tease Kensi about her tight jeans. Just like we all salivate over Kensi's tight jeans. But if you want the truth, I do actually care about what I look like. I just happen to like the way I look with a few days growth. Clean shaven and I run the risk of getting carded half the time. Any more than about a week's growth and I'm halfway to looking like a Viking ready to go on the rampage. So it's a fine line, and one I hope I'm negotiating with some success. My hair pretty much takes care of itself and does its own thing, which is fine by me.

So, I'm standing there in my robe, which is actually a pretty decent piece of clothing and in my favourite colour as well, mulling over whether or not I should bother to get dressed again, when fate steps in and sorts things out for me, in that I hear the front door opening. Yes, life is looking very sweet indeed and I'm just about to congratulate myself on being primed for the action that's going to follow, when I get smacked in the face by hubris once again. Because I can hear voices. Plural. As in more than one voice. And sadly, despite that blow to the head I took, I'm not hearing voices in my head, because these voices are getting louder. Great. Who the hell has chosen this time to come visiting? And why didn't Kensi just tell them to get lost?

"Look who I ran into at the burger bar," Kensi says, with enforced jollity. "Eric and Nell."

Under other circumstances, I might have been mildly curious as to why they were out together, but right now I really couldn't care less. I just want them to go. I try sending thought waves: _go away. Go away now. GO AWAY. _It doesn't work.

"And when we saw Kensi, I said to Eric that this would be a great chance to come over and see how you guys are doing," Nell informs me happily.

"Great idea. I'm fine." _And Kensi's fine too, _I think._ We're both fine. If you really want to know the truth, Kensi is so fine it's just about blowing my mind, so how about you both just turn right around and get the hell out of Dodge?_

Nell does not take the hint. "You're looking a lot better. Nice pecs, by the way."

It's one thing Kensi ogling my body (actually, it is something I'm going to actively encourage) but it's kind of different with Nell. For one thing, half the time she looks like she should still be in school, which makes the idea of her looking at me like that kind of weird, in a creepy sort of way. And for another, I've got this idea that Eric might have a thing for Nell, and the last thing I want him to think is that I'm making moves on her. If that makes sense. My brain is trying to come to terms with the fact that our romantic interlude is well and truly at an end and as my body is proving to be rather slow on the uptake, I'm kind of preoccupied. I grab the edges of my robe and pull them tightly together, all the while being acutely aware that I am entirely as God created me underneath. Which was fine when I thought it was just going to be me and Kensi, but it's kind of embarrassing when it comes to Nell.

So, there we all are, just standing there, and Kensi and I are avoiding looking at each other, Eric is shuffling from foot to foot (and trying not to cast too many envious glances at my surfboards stacked up in the corner) and only Nell has her normal eager expression on, completely oblivious to the fact that she's about as welcome as a fart in an elevator.

"That's a nice robe, Deeks. It suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes."

I feel like a fly caught underneath a microscope. I am never going commando again. Have you got any idea how difficult it is to keep a robe firmly shut when you are balanced on a pair of crutches? "Thanks. Kensi bought it for me." Like I said, it is a nice robe. It suddenly occurs to me that Kensi didn't just grab the first one she saw: she choose it specially for me. It's been a long time since someone did something that thoughtful for me, which is maybe why I didn't fully appreciate the gesture at the time. I'm going to have to thank her properly, later on. Once Nell and Eric are gone.

_**6. Give.  
><strong>__Give little gifts as often as you can. You don't need to spend a mint to show you care - you can even make something. If you see something that reminds you of your sweetie, get it for them. Just remember that everyone love to receive things!_

Why on earth can't Nell and Eric just get out of here so that Kensi can take her present off me and we can get back to where we were?

"We'd better eat these burgers before they get cold," Kensi says and it might just be my imagination, but I'm almost certain I detect a certain note of desperation in her voice. It's good to know we're on the same wavelength. It would be even nicer to know we were in the same bed.


	12. Chapter 12

"We'd better eat these burgers before they get cold," Kensi says and it might just be my imagination, but I'm almost certain I detect a certain note of desperation in her voice. It's good to know we're on the same wavelength. It would be even nicer to know we were in the same bed.

To give Eric his due, he practically sets a speed record for burger eating. And what's more, he refuses any beer. Good man. I always liked Eric. He's the type of guy you can rely upon. Nell, on the other hand, chatters aimlessly, and seems to be totally impervious to the fact that we are all just responding in monosyllables. This doesn't discourage her in the slightest, as she babbles away about her family, her plans for the holidays (going to visit her family) and how she really hopes Brad and Angelina get married soon and have another adorable baby and weren't they just incredible together in Mr and Mrs Smith? All you have to do is nod occasionally, and maybe make the odd sort of grunt and Nell is perfectly happy. I have never known a woman to eat quite so slowly in my entire life – but then she is talking a lot. My eyes are starting to glaze over after ten minutes of almost non-stop burbling, but I sort of jolt awake when I realise that Nell is now regaling us with the story of cousin Ann, who got a splinter in her foot, which then got infected so that blood poisoning set in and it had to be amputated.

"Nell – that's totally gross," Kensi manages.

"But it's true. And it just shows you the importance of good wound hygiene." She casts a knowing look at my leg, and I make sure the robe isn't gaping or anything like that.

"I won the hygiene prize at school," I remind everyone and then wonder once again why everyone in NCIS finds that so strange. What's wrong with a school reminding pupils of the importance of looking and smelling good?

Nell gives me another searching look, "But you've got to be especially careful now, Deeks – when your resistance is low."

That's true enough, I suppose. Right now my resistance is at an all-time low as far as Kensi is concerned. "Maybe it would be a good idea to get Kensi to help me change the dressings," I say, with as great a show of reluctance as I can muster.

"Do I have to?" She screws her face up in a parody of disgust that doesn't fool me for one instant.

"If Kensi's squeamish, I could help," Nell offers. I'm going to be generous and say that she is genuinely trying to be helpful. Eric has no such qualms. He looks at his watch, announces that it's getting late and they've got a busy day tomorrow.

Nell looks at him in disbelief. "It's only six thirty."

Really? It feels like they've been here for hours. Or even days.

"Deeks is sick, remember? He probably wants to go to bed."

I really do love Eric. One of these days I might even let him come surfing with me – on a day when the waves aren't too big, because although Eric likes the idea of surfing, he's more a boogie-board sort of guy. One day he might just manage to stay upright long enough to ride into shore, but I'm not holding out too much hope. The poor man just has no sense of balance.

"Yeah, bed sounds really good right about now."

From the sound she makes when I say that, Kensi's beer has gone down the wrong way and Nell rushes over to pat her on the back solicitously, but with considerable force.

"I'm fine," Kensi wheezes and then yelps as Nell gives her an extra hard smack right between the shoulder blades.

"You can't be too careful where choking's concerned."

"Don't worry – I'll look after Kensi. I did a couple of courses in emergency first aid. I can do CPR and everything." I smile blandly at Kensi, who promptly starts to choke again. Nell just looks confused.

"I think you've got that wrong, Deeks. It's the Heimlich manoevre you use for choking. Isn't it?" She slaps Kensi on the back again and nearly knocks her off the chair. For a small girl, Nell packs one heck of a punch. I've got a whole new respect for Eric. Maybe that's why he's so bad at surfing – because Nell has worn him out with outrageous sexual demands and he's too scared to say no? Stranger things have happened – like me and Kensi getting together. I never saw that one coming, even if it was the culmination of a hell of a lot of hoping and dreaming.

"We'll figure something out," I assure her, and Eric takes the opportunity to drag Nell bodily towards the door. For just one instant I have this fantasy of throwing Kensi over my shoulder and making a break for the bedroom, but just in time I'm remember I'm still on crutches.

"See you tomorrow!" Nell calls out and finally they are gone. I hear the sound of the key turning in the lock as Kensi makes sure we're not going to be interrupted again.

"Thank God!" Kensi collapses down onto the sofa and then winces as her back makes contact with the cushions. "I feel like I'm black and blue."

"Want me to check it out?"

"Check me out, more like. I know what you're like, Deeks."

"You can check my wound, if you want. Fair's fair."

Kensi looks at me and shakes her head. "That has to be the worst chat up line ever. 'You can check my wound' indeed. That's one's never going to work." Now, given that statement you would never guess that she had slipped her hand along my leg and was slowly caressing my inner thigh as she spoke, would you?

"Didn't you play 'I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours' when you were a kid?" I tease.

She blushes and I know I've got her. "No way." Despite the denial, she moves along the sofa so that she's a little closer to me,

"Liar. You did and I know you did. Only I bet you called it 'playing doctor and nurse', didn't you?"

"That's where your toes turn up, Marty Deeks. I did no such thing." She's so close to me now that our legs are touching and her fingers are toying with the belt of my robe.

"Really?" I turn slightly, so that I'm looking directly at her, and I can see my reflection in her eyes.

"Oh no: we called it 'medic and casualty'. I was a Marine brat, remember?"

"Of course. I bet your first words were 'Semper Fi: Do or Die', weren't they?"

"Definitely. Most definitely." And Kensi's fingers have moved so that they're playing with the edge of my robe and her eyes are so huge I could drown in them.

I could ask her if she wanted to play now, or throw out a dozen other corny lines, but I don't. Sometimes you don't need to say anything, because words are inadequate. And anyway, I've got this feeling that if I don't do something soon then we both might die of frustration. So I kiss her again, one of these long kisses that make you forget everything else, and then I kiss her neck, easing her hair back so that I can continue round towards her ear, and Kensi arches her back slightly and moves her head slightly so that it's as if she is offering herself to me. Her eyes are half-shut and she reminds me of one of those mysterious cats you see on Egyptian wall-paintings: all smooth elegance and languid poise, but with a flash of danger.

And just when I think I know where I'm going, Kensi's eyes open and she looks at me again, and I can see the spark in her eyes, dragging me in as she reaches out, puts her hand on the back of my neck and it feels like all the bones in my spine click into place at her touch. "How about we take this through to the bedroom?" Her lips brush against mine as she speaks, and it's just the merest ghost of a touch, barely a breath of a kiss and yet it makes me tremble all over. My mind is filled with her and my body craves her with a yearning that is almost painful.

"That sounds good." By some miracle we manage to make it through to the bedroom without any further mishaps on my part and I manage to subside onto the bed. And now we're finally here, I suddenly feel like a kid of sixteen again, all gauche and even a bit embarrassed. But Kensi isn't embarrassed – she's leaning against the door and she's smiling at me with that look in her eyes I'm getting to know and to love.

"At last. Just us. No pretences."

She can strip me bare, metaphorically speaking, any day of the week. She can strip me bare literally too. Let's be truthful- Kensi can do whatever the hell she likes with me and I'm not going to protest. Usually I'm the one making all the moves, so it kind of takes me by surprise when she takes the lead, but that's cool. No, that wrong – it's not cool at all. It's just about the hottest thing that has ever happened to be and I'm getting so turned on it's untrue.

"No pretences. Just you and me," I agree, all the while wondering what she is going to do next.

"Good. I'm glad we agree on that." As she walks across the room, Kensi kicks her boots off. Me, I'm barefoot already, so I just kind of sprawl on the bed and watch in wonder. I also wonder what my blood pressure's like, but then I decide I don't much care. There are worse ways to die.

"Are you just going to lie there, or are you going to help me?" She shucks off her jeans, so that she's standing there is just her shirt and a pair of panties.

What kind of a question is that? I've seen Kensi in various states of undress before, that's true. I've seen her in a swimsuit and her bra and in a dozen little black dresses that cling to her body and do obscene things to my mind, but this is different.

"Seeing you put it like that.

My fingers are fumbling with the buttons on her shirt, but that might have something to do with the fact that Kensi has slipped her hand inside my robe and her fingers are gently moving across my chest, tracing a pattern that seems to leave a trail of fire. It's kind of hard to concentrate when the blood is pounding through your veins and your heart is thundering like an out-of-control steam train coming down the tracks. I just pray I'm not going to have a stroke. Or, if I am, that it can hold off for another fifteen minutes. That's not too much to ask, is it? After all, I can see tomorrow in Kensi's eyes. Somehow I manage to slip the shirt off and almost fall back onto the pillows when I'm finally looking at Kensi kneeling in front of me in what has to be the most incredible lingerie known to man – these wisps of fiery orange-red silk and lace that makes her skin seem to glow as if she's bathed in the rays of the setting sun. Okay, I've just had my quota of dreams coming true for the rest of my live. If I die now, I'll die a happy man. I'll die with this big grin on my face and no mistake.

"Look at you." I could look at her for the rest of my life.

"Right back at you. You look good in that robe." Kensi's voice is kind of low and husky, and the sound of it sends a shiver down my spine. "Just like I knew you would. But I'm guessing you're going to look even better out of it."

I've changed my mind. I don't want to die. Not just yet. Definitely not yet. Over the course of the last year or so I might have thought vaguely about making love to Kensi, but it never crossed my mind that she'd be the one making love to me. Which is a very good lesson on the importance of being open-minded and letting your heart float free, because being seduced by Kensi is very definitely the biggest turn on known to man. She can do anything she wants to me, and then some.

"Really?" By some miracle my voice isn't squeaking up into the high resisters.

"Really," Kensi agrees. And who am I to disagree with her? So that's it for the robe then. There's a smile starting to curve across her face as she tugs the garment off and then a slow exhalation of breath that almost sounds like an accolade as Kensi's index finger slowly describes a line from my collar bone right down my sternum, then continues to my belly button. It doesn't stop there though, and I'm hitching in my breath and watching her face and praying that she going to keep on going.

"Aren't you something?"

I'm speechless, that's what I am. I am also hers to do with as she pleases. What man doesn't want to be the plaything of a beautiful woman after all? But this is better than I could ever have imagined, because this is Kensi and this is really happening. I nearly cry out when Kense's finger stops before it reaches its appointed destination, but when she reaches around behind her back to unfasten her bra, I've got o objections at all. In fact, I'm pretty sure my eyes are open as wide as possible and my jaw is probably kind of slack. I always realised what incredible breasts Kensi has, I just didn't appreciate how totally, mind-blowingly perfect they are and I reach up to cover them. It's like she's been waiting for this moment, for my touch, because she arches her back and the low moan she makes sounds almost like a purr of pleasure. Just the way she reacts to my touch is incredible, I can scarcely believe it, or the reaction her joy creates in me.

You can forget how good the simplest things in life can be, like the feel of skin against skin, or even skin caressing skin when the smooth sensation unfettered and unhindered by clothing. I'm seeing a different side to Kensi: it's as if she has shed all protective layers along with her clothes, and now she is teasing and demanding and the feel of her body reacting to my kisses is tantalizingly wonderful. Added to which she just feels so good as my hands start to explore her satiny-soft skin and her roam over mine.

We kiss as if the world is about to end, and then we kiss again. There is no such thing as enough when it comes to kissing Kensi and being kissed by her. These kisses start slow and languid as we take the time to start to really discover each other and begin to explore all the nuances that a kiss can hold. But while a kiss may start off as tentative and gently seeking, they rapidly build up in intensity to become passionate and demanding.

Kenisi pulls away from me and places one hand on my chest. "Lie down."

I obey without question and lie there, just looking at her lying beside me: so incredibly gorgeous and fully in control, hair loose and tousled and her mouth slightly swollen from our kisses. She's the one in control here, she's calling all the shots and I'm finding that more erotic than I'd ever imagined. I'm pretty much hers to command. However she want to do so, where ever she wants to take this is fine by me. I saw tomorrow in her eyes and now I want to see a whole string of days stretching out ahead of us. So I'll follow her lead, I'll let Kensi dictate the pace.

_**7. Take**__  
>For as much as you give, also be a good taker. If a gift is offered to you, be gracious about it…your lover wanted to show you appreciation with a present so don't ruin the moment and say "you shouldn't have" or be apathetic about it! Say "THANK YOU" and give a hug and a kiss. It will make the moment magical. <em>

"How come I feel like I've known you forever?" she asks, as my hands glide down to her ass, barely contained by those absurdly erotic panties.

"Because I've been waiting for you," I reply, and then turn so that I can kiss her stomach, right above her belly button ring before moving downwards and taking the waistband of those panties between my teeth as her hands tangle in my hair.


	13. Chapter 13

_There's an early spring here, and randy plot bunny is feeling frisky..._

* * *

><p>"How come I feel like I've known you forever?" she asks, as my hands glide down to her ass, barely contained by those absurdly erotic panties.<p>

"Because I've been waiting for you," I reply, and then turn so that I can kiss her stomach, right above her belly button ring before moving downwards and taking the waistband of those panties between my teeth as her hands tangle in my hair.

"Rip them," Kensi says fiercely. "Just tear them off. Now."

Okay. No problem. No problem at all. I've just been given permission to fulfil a long-held dream, so I'm not exactly going to object, am I? I give a sharp tug and that side rips free and I just grab the other side and yank sharply and the panties are no more. Which is a shame, because they were definitely working for me. On Kensi, I mean. I don't think orange is really my colour: I'm more a navy-blue sort of guy.

But Kensi is everything I've ever wanted and more. She's lying there, completely confident and comfortable in her own body, with no trace of shyness. And she is so beautiful, with her skin shimmering against the cool white of the sheets. She's everything I ever dreamt of and more. And she's right here in my bed. There's something wrong with this picture. This is too good to be true because this sort of thing doesn't happen to me. I'm Deeks, the clown, the screw up, the guy who ditched the law, who couldn't make it work in LAPD and whose managed to get shot twice in a year with NCIS. And now I'm with Kensi – who's pretty much the ultimate agent – skilled, fearless, killer-shot – she's multi-lingual and multi-talented. Why on earth would Kensi want to end up with someone like me?

"Pinch me."

"What?" She blinks a couple of times.

"Pinch me. Because this has to be a dream, right?"

"No dream. Just glorious, wonderful reality. But seeing you ask so nicely…" She stretches forward and nips me on the ass. Hard. And it kind of feels good, in a mildly kinky sort of way. "Have you any idea how long I've been waiting to do that?"

"Since you saw me and Sam grapple at the MMA tournament?" Hey, some girls get turned on by that sort of thing. And let's be honest, I was as turned on as anything watching Kensi and Eva Espinosa fighting a few months ago.

It's hard for her not to smile at that. "Pretty much. And just about every time I've seen you since then. You have the cutest butt."

That's fair enough, especially when you consider I've been thinking the same about her butt, and her breasts. Plus I've been longing to touch her breasts, to caress them, cover them with kisses and bury my face between them. And funnily enough, it turns out that Kensi's been longing for me to do just that. Who would have thunk it? So I'm kissing and stroking and she is writhing sensuously with each touch and we're both in heaven. Kensi's skin tastes amazing, just like I knew it would and the things she's doing to me with her mouth and her fingers are threatening to send me crashing over the edge before I've hardly begun. I'm moaning and she's groaning and this is pretty close to perfection as my hands slide down the skin over her back and then hold onto her hips, where they hesitate for a second.

I'm ready, no doubt about that, but all of a sudden I am gripped by this sudden terror – I want to and yet at the same time I'm terrified because this is Kensi – my friend and my partner and I don't want to ruin everything we've got between us. I don't want to risk losing her. Just as I'm hesitating, frozen by my insecurities, Kensi looks up at me, and the expression on her face just pulls me in. There's nothing to be frightened of here: she is still my partner and she will always be my friend, it's just that now we're about to become lovers and move this relationship onto a higher level. That doesn't mean we destroy everything that went before, of course it doesn't. We're just taking it deeper, making it more meaningful. We might even be making a commitment to each other. After all, I saved her life and she saved mine – that's pretty major stuff. So there's nothing to be afraid of, is there? I'm not going to lose her when we make love – I'm just going to get to know a whole new side of her.

It's easy to continue after that: all I have to do is to look at Kensi and I'm lost in the moment and just revelling in all the new sensations. There was a time when Hetty said we had to learn to trust each other, another time when she made us waltz to help us work better together. This is the ultimate in trust and now we've got no problem about moving in perfect harmony. We're living in the moment and time almost seems to stand still.

Taking control once again, Kensi moves to straddle my hips and now everything is so simple, like this was all pre-ordained, written in the stars since the beginning of time. All we had to do was to accept out fate for this is just the way it was always meant to be: the two of us here in the twilight, her face intense and composed and me trying not to tremble too much with all the adrenalin and anticipation that's been building up for so long. In the end, it is perfectly simple: I just move up towards her and she takes me, holds me and everything else simply ceases to be. Nothing else has any meaning except this one moment. This is exactly how it is meant to be, how it will always be from now on and we're moving together seamlessly, chasing each other and racing towards eternity. It was never like this before, because I never had this level of involvement. She's taken me completely, heart and mind, body and soul – I'm hers to command and I'm falling, tumbling head over heels as I slip into infinity. Nothing can stop me now. And this is only the beginning. I don't want this to ever end, as I'm surrounded by her, captured so completely.

Kensi's making these little whimpering noises now, almost like she's moaning and then she takes a gulp, swallows and is silent for just as second as her body shudders as a series of waves ripple through her. That's it: hearing her and watching her does for me utterly, it tips me over the edge and makes me lose control completely. There's an explosion of colour that fragments and then crystalises into every colour of the rainbow before subsiding into velvet darkness, and then there is just a dim room, a tumbled bed, two people lying intertwined and breathing raggedly as we try to work out if we still alive.

* * *

><p>Afterwards we lie together for a long time, talking quietly, saying all the things we never quite had the courage to say before. We've got a lot to talk about, after all. We've worked together for a long time, and almost since the day we met we've both been in denial.<p>

"Why did it have to take me getting shot for you to come to your senses?" I ask, not entirely seriously.

Kensi's lying with her head on my chest and she thumps me on the thigh with her fist. Luckily she hits my good leg. "That's right. Make like I should have done all the running. You could have said something, you know. Or you could have done something less drastic than nearly dying. That was just showing off."

"Like what?"

She thinks about this for a moment. "You could have declared undying love and then picked me up in your arms."

Okay, so we're into fantasy time, are we? That's fine: all I've got to do is remember all this for when my leg's healed and her wish is my command. "Kind of like _An Officer and a Gentleman_?" I'm not averse to a bit of role play either, if you really must know. I believe in having an open mind, after all.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Rhett Butler and Scarlet O'Hara," Kensi confesses, snuggling in a bit closer, slinging one leg across mine.

That's even better. Soft southern accents and corsets have always done something for me. That could really work. Except didn't Rhett Butler carry Scarlett up a flight of stairs? That could be a slight problem, seeing as how I live in an apartment, and while I'm not exactly shy, I'm not a complete exhibitionist either. I can see we're going to have to do some work on this fantasy later on. It's always good to have a project you can both work on together.

"So that time you zapped me with the taser - that was really just your way of showing me how much you cared?"

Kensi looks at me as if I'm mad. "Of course not: it was because I wanted to zap you with the taser. Who better to practice on than my partner?"

"Admit it: you were secretly hoping I'd go into cardiac arrest and then you'd get to do mouth-to-mouth on me, weren't you?"

"You are so big headed! You're not that irresistible, you know." This time she doesn't thump me, instead she kind of shimmies her hips against me and the sensation provokes an instant reaction. A very pleasurable reaction, if you must know.

"Can I help it if you think I'm gorgeous?"

"Did I say I thought you wer gorgeous? You'd pass in a crowd, I suppose. And anyway, you think I'm irresistible, don't you?" Kensi gives another slight wriggle, just to let me know she's noticed.

"Guilty as charged, ma'am. But that's not the point. You think I'm hot stuff. And I am. You just ask anyone. Ask Nell."

I think that might just have been the wrong thing to say, because Kensi sort of stiffens. "Nell?" Her voice has a brittle edge to it. "What do mean _Nell_ thinks you're hot stuff?"

Oh oh. Definitely the wrong thing to say. But come on, surely Kensi noticed the way Nell was practically undressing me with her eyes earlier on? "Nothing. It was just a joke." Surely she doesn't think I've been encouraging Nell?

"A bad joke." Her lips are kind of drawn into a thin line.

Surely Kensi's not jealous of Nell? When I think of Nell, it's kind of like she's the kid sister of one of my buddies. Don't get me wrong – Nell's a great kid (when she's not being tactless, that is) and she's as cute as a button – but that's it. I just can't think of her in any sort of sexual way – it just seems plain wrong. I'm kind of shocked to realise my moral standards are that high. (That's a joke, by the way. I just thought I'd better point that out, because everyone gets my sense of humour.)

_**8. Support**__.  
>If your honey believes something you don't or says something you don't agree with, be sure to support her anyway. Your companion deserves a higher level of respect so be sure to stand by him or her no matter what. <em>

"Sure. A really bad joke." For some reason, my colleagues in NCIS don't really appreciate my jokes. I've never quite worked out why. But this is obviously bothering her, so I try to make amends. "Kensi: I've just told you I've had a thing for you from the start. It's always been you. I don't even care that I had to get shot in order for us to finally get together, all I care about is that we're together. That's all that matters." Nell doesn't even begin to feature on my radar as anything other than a colleague: she never has and she never will. That's just the way things work: you either have a thing with someone, or you don't. I can categorically state that I have never had a thing for Nell. But Kensi, on the other hand… she had me, she always had, it was just that I didn't know until now.

The tension in her body seems to dissipate. "Me too. It's just that… I don't know. This is all just so new and I don't quite believe it yet."

"You and me both." I start kissing her neck again, and am gratified when that induces a shiver of delight and her fingers tighten around my bicep.

"There's just one thing though…"

"Uh huh?" Right now, I'm a bit pre-occupied, because I've got plans. It's my turn to take charge of things and set the agenda.

"Let's not say anything, okay? Not just yet."

Wait a minute. Did I just hear that right? Did Kensi say what I think she just said? "You want to make like nothing happened?" That stops me in my tracks and no mistake.

"That's not what I said. And it's not what I meant."

"Okay – so what did you mean?" Is she embarrassed? Ashamed? Is she regretting this already? "Kensi? Exactly what did you mean?" The mood is definitely gone.

"I knew you'd react like this." She sits up and then pulls the sheets up around her, like I've not seen her body, like I've not already kissed nearly every square inch of her.

"I'm glad I didn't disappoint you." I can't help noticing that she's not answering the question.

"You think I'm ashamed, don't you?" This statement is accompanied by a rather sharp poke to the chest, but seeing as how the sheet slips to expose her right breast, I'm not going to say anything.

"Are you?"

"What do you think?"

I shrug. "That I wouldn't exactly blame you?" It's no secret that I've had more than a few girls staying over during the time I've been in NCIS. Sort of serial dating, if you like. Except for the twins. Well, they were identical twins, so how could I choose one over the other? That wouldn't have been fair. And besides, I might have chosen the wrong one. Maybe Kensi's afraid this is just going to be another flash in the pan, and that I lack staying power. How can I tell her that it's because while the sex might have been great, there was always something lacking; I always knew I was looking for something more – and that I've found that something with her? That would just sound really lame.

"You are an idiot, aren't you? A complete idiot. God knows why I fell so hard for you, Marty Deeks." The sheet slips right down to her waist as Kensi leans forward and kisses me. "I just want this to be special, between us and nobody else – just for a few days? Alright?"

Alright? That sounds just about perfect. I've just got to learn to trust Kensi. And maybe to I need start to feel like I deserve to be with her. If she can believe in me, why can't I believe in myself?

"Sure, baby girl. Anything." I'd do anything for her, anything at all. Because she's Kensi and that's all there is to it. Life's actually very simple, you know, once you've figured out what's important. SO she wants to keep this secret? Well, why not? What harm can it possibly do?

* * *

><p><em>Oh Deeks - really? You'd think he'd know better, wouldn't you? let's just say that slushy plot bunny has been throwing pixie-dust in his eyes.<em>


	14. Chapter 14

_Deeks is begining to have second thoughts..._

* * *

><p>I need to start thinking before I speak, I really do. Mrs Johnson – who was my English teacher back in high school kept telling me that. Usually after she'd said something along the lines of, 'Would you like to share that with the class, Martin?' I always took that as an invitation to share my witty repartee with my less-verbally gifted classmates, but now I get it. She was telling to shut the fuck up. Wise woman, Mrs Johnson. I just wish I'd listened to her, but you see I have this sort of automatic hatred for anybody who calls me 'Martin'. Which is only natural, really. What the hell were my parents thinking of when they called me that? Apart from 'we really don't much like this kid, so let's give him a really dumb name. That'll serve him right.' I know what you're thinking – as names go, 'Deeks' really isn't a whole lot better. And you know what? You're probably right. Only I wasn't Deeks back in those days, I was Brandel. Only that's a long story, and probably better left for another time. Like never. Mind you, I wish I'd thought of changing both my names while I was at it. Or gone for the Callen option, and just plumped for an initial. Ah well, I'll know better next time. If I ever have a kid, it's going to get at least three names, so at least there's a choice.<p>

Anyway, if only I'd listened to Mrs Johnson, I would never have ended up in this situation. I would have just told Kensi that trying to keeping our 'thing' a secret was a really crazy idea and we'd never manage to pull it off. Consider the circumstances: first of all, I'm head over heels in love with Kensi, plus she can barely keep her hands off me, so it's going to be blindingly obvious to everyone who doesn't have a seeing-eye dog and then there's the small matter of our colleagues having certain observational skills, after all. Especially Hetty, who either has eyes in the back of her head or she's got the whole Mission bugged and under close-circuit surveillance. I wouldn't put it past Hetty to have my apartment bugged too, and with infra-red cameras in all the rooms so that she doesn't miss a thing. But the thing is, at the time Kensi suggested we just keep everything low key and under wraps, I remembered that stupid magazine article, and how it said I was supposed to be supportive. Plus, Kensi caught me at kind of a weak moment. So it's my fault for agreeing without thinking the whole thing through.

The following morning, I unearthed the magazine, just so I could check to see what else I was supposed to be doing. And guess what the next handy tip said?

_**9. Be honest.  
><strong>__Don't sugar coat things just to keep your significant other happy. If something is bothering you, share it. If you are upset at the world, let her know why. If you don't want to go to a party, just tell her. You will find that not only will you be happier, but your relationship will benefit because you are communicating._

Really? Excuse me? Am I the only person who sees a slight contradiction with the previous instruction, which was basically to do what you were told, whether you liked it or not - only of course it was couched in more touchy-feely terms. And now this. Do they think we're stupid or something? Okay, don't answer that, because clearly I am. Can I just say in my defense that I hit my head really hard when I was shot? I think I might have some residual brain damage, which is why I was dumb enough to fall for that article in the first place. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And it makes a hell of a lot more sense than that stupid magazine, with all its dumb ideas about _'How To Be A Better Partner'_. If I hadn't already known that piece was written by a woman, I would have guessed by now. The clues were all there, if only I'd looked. Let's be honest, it's laying down the rules of relationships, as women see it. And I know these already: do what she wants and do as you're told. And then talk about things – a lot. Maybe I should write the male version of those rules, which would start off with lingerie, move on through beer to sports, as well as covering essential topics like 'men do not talk about their feelings' and then finish up with sex. That pretty much covers everything a man looks for in a relationship, doesn't it? This article is blatantly biased and it only covers one point of view. I was trying to be considerate and thoughtful and now I've landed up in this ludicrous situation. The only thing is, I've been following the rules and it actually seems to have been working so far. Go figure.

Great. I've got myself into this situation, and actually, I'm really happy about it. Me and Kensi. Kensi and me. Whichever way you look at it, it's pretty great. No, it's better than that – it's the best thing that's happened to me, ever. And that's the truth. I never knew just how happy being with someone could make you. So I feel great, Kensi definitely feels great and everything's great. Other than the small matter of keeping how great this all is a complete secret. Which is definitely never going to work. So what exactly am I meant to do now? Answers on a postcard to _M Deeks, care of the Home For Confused Cops, California_. No matter which way I look at it, it's bad and I'm a dead man, whatever I do. Either the rest of the team will kill me when they eventually find out (and they will find out, I know that) or I tell them now, at which point Kensi will kill me. Given the choice, I guess I'd rather have Sam kill me, because at least that way it would be quick. He could basically just sit on me and that would be it. Either way, I'm going to have to work something out. Anything. Because right now I'm a dead man walking.

* * *

><p>It's been over a week now, and Kensi's only gone back to her place to pick up clean clothes. I'm just amazed we've managed to keep it a secret for so long, but our luck can't last much longer. There's no time like the present, so I just dive on in there, before I lose courage. Either that or before Kensi catches me at a weak moment, like when we're about to make love, or when we've just made love. That pretty much covers most of the time we spend together right now, given that she's working. I find I'm having an awful lot of weak moments since Kensi virtually moved in, funnily enough. Not that I'm objecting, in fact I'm positively encouraging it.<p>

"I was at the doctor today."

Kensi is lying sprawled on the sofa, having just come in after work and she's flicking though the channels on TV. I'm not quite sure why she's bothering to do that, as she knows perfectly well there's a game on at 9 tonight. Anyway, she jerks upright when I mention the word 'doctor'. It's almost a Pavlovian response. "What's wrong? Do you feel okay?"

Do you know, I'd really rather Kensi discovers how I feel for herself. She can take as long as she wants over that, as long as she's finished before the game starts, of course. We should have plenty of time, because it's not on for another couple of hours, if you don't mind skipping the pre-match build-up. I can do that. Don't ever say I'm not prepared to make sacrifices in order for this jrelationship to work, because that hust isn't true.

"I feel fine. So fine that the doctor says I can go back in to work on Monday. Desk duties only, to start off with." And even better, I've been able to ditch those stupid crutches. Mind you, they have given me the most amazing definition on my pecs. Or so Kensi says.

"Are you sure that's what he said? Honestly?"

"Really and truly. Would I lie to you?" See what I mean about opening my mouth before I think? I just never learn, do I? I just open my big mouth and stick my foot right in it.

"You've got to take things slowly," Kensi says, clearly not liking the idea one little bit.

"I can do slowly," I assure her, and try to keep the wolfish grin off my face. I'm not entirely successful, because Kensi picks me up on that immediately.

"Tell me about it." There's a certain tone in her voice and a definite look in her eyes that I've come to recognize. Basically, it's an invitation.

Last night (or maybe it was early this morning: I wasn't exactly looking at the clock after all) Kensi was begging me to let her come, and I was teasing her, taking things so far, and then pulling back just a bit, so that she was being driven wild and driving me crazy in the process. Have you any idea what that feels like? Well, let me tell you this: it feels amazing. It feels like you are on top of the world and there is nothing you can't do and that everything is stretching out in front of you, golden and true and with so many possibilities, all of them incredible you just don't know what to do next. And if that sounds kind of romantic, then so what? Fair enough, I'm a guy but I do actually have feelings, no matter how much I might try to deny it or even try hide them. Pretty much I'm successful, but not always. Like now.

"How slow do you want? Are we talking about slow as in kisses that go on all night or are we talking slow as in butterscotch sauce?"

That confuses her. "Butterscotch sauce?"

Sometimes I think that Kensi has led a very sheltered life. And that therefore it is my duty to introduce her to some of the more esoteric pleasures; namely that there is more to butterscotch sauce than just pouring it over your ice cream. "I could show you – only it might get kind of messy." Actually, it's going to get very messy indeed. As well as hot and sweaty and completely out of control.

The penny drops and her eyes light up, as indeed they should. "I think I need to know."

Ten minutes later, and Kensi is lying naked on the bed and I'm squeezing an elaborate curlicue of sauce around her right nipple.

"That's cold. And it tickles." She gives this little squirm of delight as I finish of my masterpiece and survey it critically before starting on the other side. Once that's completed to my satisfaction (I'm a good deal of a perfectionist) I can start to fill in the rest of my canvas. Only first things first, so I lean over and kiss her, being careful not to disturb my artistic endeavours.

"Where do you get your ideas from?" Kensi asks breathlessly.

"I'm just naturally talented." I'm also incredibly modest. Okay, on to the main act, because all this was just the warm-up. And it is getting rather warm in here, or is that just me?

"And very inventive. I guess you could use chocolate sauce too," she muses, as I slowly dribble a line of sauce down her stomach in a zig-zag pattern.

"Or whipped cream." The possibilities are endless, when you think about it. Not maple syrup though, because that's too runny. And if it goes into your belly button, you're left with this sticky sensation for days afterwards. You can believe me on this, because I speak from experience. But you'd already guessed that, hadn't you?

"And sprinkles, or even cherries." She's really getting into this, God bless her. Just like I knew she would. "No, you can't do that! Not there." Except she's not really protesting – it's just kind of a token resistance, more for the sake of it than anything else.

"Can't I? Just watch me."

When I look up briefly, just to check she really is okay with this, Kensi's got this huge big grin on her face, only she's biting her bottom lip at the same time. "Please tell me I get to do the same to you?"

That's my girl. "Of course you do. That's the whole point of this." If she was smiling a second ago, that's nothing compared with what she's going to be doing soon, as I put down the sauce bottle and start to discover just how sweet Kensi really is.

Anyway, what with one thing and another (mostly the other) we miss the game. But you kind of knew that was going to happen anyway, didn't you? Not that I was complaining. I had it set up to record on Tivo, just in case. I'm getting the hang of this whole relationship thing. But I've still no idea how on earth I'm going to manage not to let on to the team at work that Kensi and I are involved. Especially when I want to shout it from the rooftops. I'll figure something out, I'm sure I will. I usually do after all.

* * *

><p>"You owe me."<p>

We're lying in a sticky huddle in the soporific aftermath of a pretty epic encounter, and I'm sucking the ends of my moustache in an attempt to get the remains of the butterscotch sauce out and thinking I might have to trim it tomorrow.

"What? Twice wasn't enough for you?" To be honest, I'm not altogether sure I'm capable of anything else right now, far less making love to Kensi in the way she deserves to me made love to. I need at least another ten minutes recovery time.

"I can't get enough of you. Don't you know that?"

Well, that makes me feel absurdly good, a real sort of warm and fuzzy feeling, only of course real men don't admit to having these, do they? So let's just say that I felt kind of happy. Luckily, Kensi doesn't wait for my reply, which is just as well, because what can I possibly say in response? I want to tell her that while making love is amazing, what I'm feeling is something more and I want something more: I want her, body and soul and I want everyone to know about us. Don't ask me why, I just do. Maybe because it just won't seem real until we're out there? That's probably stupid, but I'm just not comfortable with this whole business of having to keep it a secret. What's the big deal after all? We're two adults, we're both free and single and it's not like we're hurting anybody. The rest of the team might be shocked, but they'll get over it.

"Lingerie," Kensi says firmly, dragging me back to reality. It's quite incredible how one word can do that, isn't it? "You owe me lingerie."

She's right. There's the small matter of those panties, isn't there? And they were small, mere wisps of lace and silk in a deep orange. Which just goes to prove that the best things come in small packages.

"So I do." There wasn't much left of those panties by the time I was finished. Lingerie is good. Ask any man that. Lingerie is sensual and erotic and I haven't got a bad word to say about it. So I can do lingerie. I can do lingerie any day of the week. And at the weekends too. "We could go shopping tomorrow."

"No way. Someone would be bound to see us."

There's no use telling her LA's a huge place and we could go somewhere small and out of the way and I could maybe sit in one of those velvet chairs and watch as Kensi models a few outfits, before we make out final selection. You might think that I've done this once or twice before, but I couldn't possibly comment. Anyway, I know that there is no point in arguing with Kensi about this for two reasons: the first is that she will win, because she's Kensi. And the second is that I don't want her pissed with me, because I'm kind of thinking that the ideal way to get rid of all the sticky residue from the sauce is to have a long hot bath together, rather than a cold shower by myself

"So what do you suggest?"

I really hope Kensi doesn't want me to go by myself. There's nothing sadder than seeing some furtive-looking guy in a lingerie shop, fingering the merchandise with an expectant gleam in his eye. Some things have to be done together after all. We're both going to enjoy the results, so we should both get to choose. Me, I'm kind of thinking along the lines of a basque, maybe in lime-green. But I'd really need to see how it looks before I can make that final decision. That colour could make Kensi look kind of dead, and I've never been into necrophilia. In fact, it's a complete turn off for me. Which is why I could never buy the idea of those kids in _Twilight_ being 'hot', when clearly not only were they as cold as the grave, but the thought of having sex with a dead person is enough to turn any sane person right off. And that's without even considering the pouting and petulance they indulge in at every turn. Anyway, my point is that it's important we make this a joint endeavour.

Kensi thinks about this and for a moment I'm hopeful that she might see how mad all this secrecy business is and say that we should just let people find out, as and when. And that we should definitely go shopping tomorrow. I'm pretty sure I've still got a list of the best lingerie shops tucked away somewhere. There's a couple that even give me a discount, on account of the fact I've been such a good customer.

"Maybe we could look online?" she suggests, and my heart sinks again. If anything, that's even sadder that the lone male in the lingerie shop. Especially when you see the sizes some of those internet companies specialise in. Just put it this way, there is a whole market out there that you really don't want to think about. All I'm going to say is that corsets should be worn by women.

"Sure. If that's what you want."

I try to sound upbeat, but that's taking half the fun out of it: you go shopping and there's the whole business of selecting exactly the right things, and then they're all wrapped up in tissue paper and then you go out for lunch, in some little place that's out of the way, and all the while that bag is just sitting there, mutely inviting you to think about what's inside. And of course you can't stop thinking about what you've just bought, and about how good she's going to look. It's the anticipation, you see. And when your eyes meet across the table, and you know she's thinking about putting the lingerie on, and about you taking the lingerie off, because that's what you're thinking too that's when you can feel the expectation building up. And maybe your knee nudges hers underneath the table and an electric shock flies between you. That's when the realisation hits and you ask for the bill and then you drive just as fast as you can to get home… You see, it's all about doing this in public and thinking about the private moments you're going to have. It's all about the experience. Buying over the internet just isn't the same. It's like having hamburger when what you really want is a juicy steak – it's essentially the same, but at the same time it's completely different. There's no soul and there's no fun.

Clearly I'm not as good an actor as I think, because Kensi senses my disappointment. "I'm just not ready for anyone else to know. Not just yet."

Brilliant. Now I've made her feel bad too. And this should be such a positive thing. We should be getting really excited about it. We've been together for over a week now – how much longer is it going to be before Kensi finally acknowledges that? Is she ashamed, or something? That's the question, and I know I'm not going to get an answer anytime soon, so there's no point in going there.

"I know, baby girl. And it's fine. Everything's fine." Or it will be. I hope. As long as I can manage to put on a good show on Monday.

* * *

><p><em>I wonder what other handy tips that article contains that might help Deeks out of his predicament?<em>


	15. Chapter 15

We pretty much stay holed up in my apartment for the whole weekend, only going out to walk Monty. Kensi figures that's safe, because even if we are spotted together, then she can legitimately claim she was walking my dog. So now we've got a furry chaperone. Or a canine beard. Whatever. Monty is impervious to his new role, and just trots along happily in between us. I've kind of got the idea that he thinks of Kensi as his new mommy. Which is another reason we should just come clean: we owe it to Monty. Hmm – I'm not sure Kensi will buy that one, but it might just be worth a shot, if things get really desperate. I'll hold that idea in reserve.

So, there we are, strolling along the street and Kensi is making sure there's at least a foot between us, Monty is wagging his tail and I'm trying not to limp too hard and wondering if I can manage to sneak out tomorrow and go for a jog, because if I don't start to get back into an exercise routine soon there's going to be hell to pa. That's when I get this glimpse of our reflections in a shop window. And guess what? We look good together. Even Monty looks good. We actually look like a couple, just like all the couples around us, just ambling along in the sunshine with our dog and enjoying the day. So why don't I feel good? You don't want me to answer that, do you?

That's when I spot it: a discretely tantalizing window display: just a chair with a camisole draped over the back and a stocking lying artfully on the floor. Very subtle. So is the name of the shop: _Intimate Pleasures_. Want to hazard a guess about what it sells?

"That's new. How about we take a look?" I deliberately try to sound as light as possible. No pressure then: absolutely none at all.

Kensi flushes. "I thought we agreed?" Now, that's not exactly how I remember things, but I'm not going to go into that. No, I'm just going to be logical and hope she succumbs to temptation. Okay, the logic bit will probably slide over her, so my money's on the temptation. It's certainly working for me, because that underwear looks mighty fine.

"We're right here, right now." I can see she's tempted – and so am I. That camisole is whisper-sheer shell-pink silk and it's trimmed with ecru lace. It's subtle and elegant and it would look incredible on Kensi. She knows it and I know it.

"What about Monty?"

"What about him? He's a boy and besides, pale pink isn't his colour. He's more of a burgundy or maybe a dark green sort of guy." Kensi just shoots me a look. "I'll tie him up. He'll be fine."

It's not like Monty needs a whole lot in the way of stimulation, after all. He'll probably fall asleep after about five minutes. As I'm talking, I'm tying Monty's lead and he looks at me, yawns and then lies down, with his head on his paws, which is pretty incredible. Normally when I ask Monty to do something, he does the opposite. I've never worked out if he's contrary, hard of hearing or just plain dumb. Maybe he's all three?

"I suppose we could… I mean, there's not a whole lot of people about." She looks back at the window display and I can see she's tempted – really tempted.

"Nobody's ever going to know." At least I hope not.

"You could wait outside," she suggests.

No, I could not. I most definitely could not. But Kensi is weakening, in fact I'd say she's almost there. As long as I play it cool, I reckon we're almost into the home straight. Then again, maybe I need to pull out my ultimate weapon. Normally I'd say this is a bit too early in the game to show my hand, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Aw, come on, Kensi." I wait a beat (and that's important. You can't rush these things) "Please?" And as I say that, I tilt my head to the side, just ever so slightly, and lower it at the same time and then kind of give her a sideways glance from under my eyelashes, doing my best to look as appealing as possible. It usually works. You wouldn't believe the success-rate I have with that look. Or the hours I've spent practicing it either.

Do you know - it's like when you're watching some guy chopping down a huge tree: there comes a point where he's done all he can, and he steps back and just waits for a couple of seconds. For a moment there is nothing a t all, and then the tree starts to move, very slowly at first, but gathering pace until it crashes to the ground. It's exactly like that. First, Kensi wavers: I can see the uncertainty in her face. Next it's replaced by a smile and then finally she grabs hold of my hand and drags me into the shop. Anybody watching would think I was the reluctant one, not her.

Sadly, Kensi declines to come out of the changing room to let me see what the assortment of garments she allowed me to pick look like.

"What would be the fun in that?" she asks, sticking her head round the side of the curtain. "Haven't you ever heard of delayed gratification?"

Sure I have – I just don't subscribe to it on a personal level, that's all. The way I look at it, that's just another form of procrastination – and that's bad. Why wouldn't you want something you know is going to be good as soon as possible, after all? What's the sense in delaying something you know is going to be absolutely fabulous – unless you are a sadist? Or a misogynist. Or maybe both. Me, I'm a pretty straightforward guy - I just like my pleasures wherever and however I can get them. It's as simple as that. Why on earth would you want to put something off until tomorrow, when you could very well not be around to enjoy it? Maybe it's the couple of brushes with death I've had, or it might just be something to do with the fact I love sex and I'm highly sexed? Who knows – who actually cares? All I'm saying is that the man that doesn't want to see Kensi in sexy underwear probably needs to go get his eyes tested.

"If that's what you want, then you could go back to your own place tonight." There's nothing like a counter argument to put things into perspective.

Kensi is pretty sure I'm calling her bluff, but there's just a tiny kernel of doubt. I know tht, because she puts forward a feeler. "How about a photo?"

"That might work." Actually, it would work just fine. Because then I'd have it for posterity. I can just see me showing the grandkids: 'And that was Gammy Kay, back in the day. My, she was a fine looking woman.'

Whoa. Reverse back up there, Deeks. What the heck was that? You're fantasising about having grandchildren and still having the hots for Kensi when we're both in our seventies? It must be true – too much sex really does rot the brain. Just then my phone pings, and sure enough, there's a photo. And it's… Wow. It really is. And a whole lot more.

"That's the one." That's definitely the one. And that's a photo I'm going to treasure forever.

"That's what I thought," Kensi says smugly, and then whips the camera out of my hand and deletes the photo. She must have set an all-time record for speed dressing. Pity she doesn't know I'd already forwarded it on to my personal email account back home. She's not the only one who can be quick and sneaky.

By the time we get outside, with my wallet considerably lighter than when we went in, Monty is not only sound asleep, he's actually snoring.

"I told you he'd be fine."

Kensi looks up and down the street. "It wasn't Monty I was worried about."

"We're fine. We're just out for a walk, the kind of thing that partners do. Nothing unusual about that." If you ignore that rather large carrier bag, with _Intimate Pleasures_ emblazoned on the side, and the tempting rustle of tissue paper. "And I'm kind of hungry. How about we get some lunch?"

I suppose that's kind of underhand, given that Kensi has been nagging me incessantly to eat more and put some weight back on, but right now I'm going to take every advantage I can get. _Fifteen: Love_, I rather think.

"We've got Monty with us," Kensi points out. That would be the second time she's used him as an excuse in under an hour. Still, that makes it _Fifteen All_, I suppose. I'd better up my game a bit.

"He won't mind. Look at him." Monty's virtually comatose, after all. _Thirty: Fifteen_.

"Dog's can't go into restaurants. It's against the law." _Thirty All_. Bugger, she's good at this game. But I'm better.

"He can wait here." The advantage in having a rather unprepossessing dog is that nobody is going to steal him. People might feel sorry for Monty, but they seldom want to take him home with them. Which makes it _Forty: Thirty_.

"That would be cruel." Oh, well played, Ms Blye! _Forty All._

Kensi is a whole lot better at this than I thought she would be. Never underestimate your enemy. Or just how cunning a desperate woman can be. Okay, it's time for the infamous Deeks smash and lob. "There's a place just round the corner that serves the most incredible chocolate mousse." And she's wavering, she's definitely tempted. It's _Advantage Deeks_, and time for me to serve an ace, I think. "Plus, we can sit outside, so Monty can come too." And that's it. Game, set and match to Deeks.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Kensi says, as she studies the menu.

"I might have." Never give away the game plan, Deeks. You never know when you're going to have to use it again. Why reinvent the wheel, after all.

"You are awful." But she says it with such a wicked smile that she's fooling nobody.

"But you like me, right?"

"I guess I'm stuck with you." Kensi looks at the carrier bag and smiles knowingly. And that's when our eyes meet, just as I'm raising my glass of wine.

"Here's to us," I say, half-joking. Is there an 'us'? Or is this just a 'thing'? I guess I'll have to wait until she tells me.

"And to this afternoon."

Okay, she's won. Kensi has me flat on the ropes and pretty soon I'm sure she'll have me begging for mercy. All of a sudden I just want to get out of here and go home. "How about we ask for this to go?"

"What would be the fun in that?" she asks sweetly and looks back down at the menu. "I'm kind of hungry. And you're definitely going to need three courses. I don't want you running out of stamina half-way through."

The wine goes down the wrong way and I start to choke.

"Did I say something wrong?" Kensi asks solicitously, as I make a grab for the water carafe. Monty just lays under the table, supremely unconcerned at the strange noises coming from my throat.

"Hell no." In fact I couldn't have said it better myself. There's nothing like a nice piece of salacious innuendo to get my pulse beating a little bit faster.

So it looks like delayed gratification is definitely on the menu. With a side-order of mild frustration and a garnish of pent-up desire. Excellent. I've created a monster here, because when it comes to game playing, Kensi is the mistress par excellence. Fantastic. I can see we're going to have a whole heap of fun. This is only lunchtime and we've still got the rest of the weekend. There's every chance I could have a relapse before Monday morning.

* * *

><p>"Exactly how are we going to work this?"<p>

It's Monday morning and we're getting ready for work. Already I've been out for a sneaky jog, taking Monty along with me, of course and trying to work out how we're going to manage to pull this off. And women think they're the only ones who can multi-task?

I get a blank look in response. "What is 'this', exactly Deeks?"

"Our 'thing'? Relationship. Whatever. The fact that when we're alone we can't keep our hands off each other."

"But we won't be alone, will we?"

And that's the problem, summed up in a nutshell. We've been cocooned in cosy isolation for the past few weeks, and for at least ten days of that time we've been naked for around 70% of the time. I point this out, but she doesn't buy it.

"No problem. We'll just behave like we always do." Kensi says airily, like this is no big deal.

"Uh huh. That easy, is it?"

"I'm a professional: you're a professional. We can do this." My look of uncertainty (or maybe even incredulity) must show, because Kensi smiles and kisses me on the lips. "Don't sweat it, Deeks. Just make like you're working undercover and you'll be fine."

That's actually good advice. Over the years I've run a good few undercover operations. Only this time things are different, because she's asking me to be the man I was before all this happened. And that man had been attracted to her from the day we met, only he was in denial about it all, and tried to cover up by flirting and teasing all the time. Now the flirting and the teasing have moved onto a different level and I'm almost certain I won't be able to hide that, no matter who I pretend to be. Add on to that the fact that I'm so damned happy and there's no way I can hide that. Plus I kind of want to share that with people. Don't ask me why – I just do.

"Okay." According to that magazine article, I'm supposed to be supportive, I remember. But I'm also meant to be honest. Why does life have to be so complicated? "I'll do my best." But I'm pretty sure everyone will take one look at me and guess. Put it this way, they won't have to look too closely. Kensi kind of has an effect on me.

"That's all I'm asking."

It strikes me that this is the sort of thing supportive mothers say to their offspring, only of course I wouldn't exactly know about that, both of my parents being somewhat less than stellar in the child-rearing and encouragement department. However, I'm not exactly looking for a surrogate mommy here, given I've managed quite nicely without one for years. And I definitely don't want to think of Kensi as my mommy, because that would just be plain weird. And very possibly perverted.

"So we just act as if nothing has happened, right?" I just want to make sure I've got this straight.

"Exactly. Well, nothing more than you getting shot and me staying over to help you. That's all," Kensi says brightly. "Not that you getting shot wasn't a big deal, of course. Because it was." Just to make sure I understand, she kisses me. And it's the sort of kiss that makes you forget everything else and one which threatens to make both of us very late indeed, right up to the point where she pulls her hips back from mine and gives me a rueful smile.

It occurs to me that you put one hot woman in an apartment with a highly-sexed man and there's one pretty inevitable outcome, only that's probably not the most helpful thing to say right now, so I just nod and smile and watch as she leaves to go work. We've decided that I should wait at least ten minutes, and then stop for coffee on the way in, just like I always do. Just so we don't arouse suspicions.

This is never going to work.

* * *

><p>"Deeks! Good to have you back, man." Sam gets up from his desk and takes the tray of coffee out of my hands. "And no longer doing the Long John Silver impersonation, I see." This is about as near as you will ever get to a declaration of undying love from Sam Hanna, and I recognize that. I also recognize that the last thing Sam would want is for me to acknowledge it.<p>

"Monty objected to the parrot. And so did Kensi, after it sat on her head and then pooped. I told her it was lucky, but she wouldn't listen."

"Story of your life, Deeks." Callen gets up to join us and makes a grab for the box of donuts. "Anyway, Kensi knows how lucky she is already."

"She does?" By my calculations, Kensi has only been here for about twenty minutes. Surely she can't have cracked quite so quickly? I know Callen and Sam are good, but are they that good?

"You saved her life. Not that she seems particularly grateful about it."

"That's not fair. And it's not true."

_**10. Defend.**__  
>If someone or something is out to harm your soul mate, be sure to step up to their defense. It could be verbal slander, physical threats or even just work politics, but if it is in your power to do something to stand up for your lover, then do so. <em>

"Isn't it?" Callen looks at me quizzically.

"Kensi's been there for me, every step of the way." I can actually feel myself getting angry and struggle to push it down, play things cool, like the old Deeks would do. "Come on: she's my partner. We look out for each other – without thinking. That's just what partners do. And I know Kensi would do the same thing for me in a second – without thinking."

"So you're cool with all this? And you guys can continue to work together?" For some reason Callen is really pushing this.

If in doubt, take the fight into the enemy's camp, distracting as much attention as possible while you do so. So I go on the counter-attack.

"You're jealous, aren't you? Because I've got a hot partner, and you've just got Sam? This is what this is all about, isn't it? Well, I ain't swapping. Because there's no way Sam's going to look half as good in a little black dress as Kensi. Even supposing they can get one big enough to fit him. You're just jealous because we get all the cool undercover jobs, like posing as a hot young couple. But that could work for you and Sam. Only you'd have to be a hot, older, same-sex couple."

"I told you he didn't have PTSD," Kensi says, coming around the corner. "Only they wouldn't believe me, Deeks." She gives me a wry smile. "Let's just say that running me down is Callen's way of showing how much he cares about you."

"Oh, I'm feeling the love," I assure her, and try not to smirk when she blushes. And then I think 'what the heck?' Because that's the sort of thing I would say anyway.

"I just wish Deeks would put some more care and effort into his hair," Sam mumbles, kind of embarrassed that their secret is out in the open.

"You know I didn't mean any of that, Kensi," Callen says reassuringly and then clocks the expression on her face. The one that says Kensi is mentally envisaging disemboweling him. "Don't you?"

Before she can reply, Hetty wades into the fray. See what I mean about her timing? It's just a little too good to be true. She definitely has the place bugged. Or maybe she has us bugged? Do I actually know she didn't get those doctors to shove a listening device into my leg when they were operating? Or they might have made me swallow one when I was unconscious. Anything is possible where Hetty is concerned.

"Welcome back, Mr Deeks. We've missed you. All of us." I'm not entirely sure, but I think Callen and Sam might be blushing. Of course, they might just be remembering bursting in on me when I was in the bath and are still struggling with their feelings of inadequacy. "Did you drive yourself in to work this morning?"

She's testing me, that's what she's doing. Hetty suspects something is going on between me Kensi and she wants to find out if we rode in together. I'm tempted to say that I let Monty pull me in on my skateboard, but I bite back the words. Sarcasm and wit are useless weapons against Hetty, because she just ignores them. She would have got on really well with Mrs Johnson. They could be sisters, or maybe even twins, separated at birth. If it wasn't for the fact Mrs J was a Brunhilda of a woman: you could almost see the horned helmet.

"Sure I did."

"In that case, I'm afraid that I am going to have to ask for your car keys." She holds out her hand and fixes me with her beady glare, which has always kind of reminded me of a snake hypnotizing its prey. Of course, I'm powerless to resist. God, the woman is good!

"The doctor never said anything about not driving," I mumble, and instantly cringe, realizing that I sound like a little kid when I say that.

"Shall I translate that into plain English?" Hetty offers. "The doctor never said anything about the merits of driving or not driving after a significant head injury because you never asked, did you?"

"Not exactly."

"Not at all, Mr Deeks. You deliberately stayed silent."

This is like being back at school all over again. Hetty could give Mrs Johnson a run for her money. But at least she doesn't call me Martin. And why isn't Kensi rushing to my defense? Isn't all this supportive stuff supposed to work both ways? Mind you, now I come to think about it, the article didn't say a single thing about the woman's part in this whole relationship thing. It was probably proceeding from the assumption that the woman is always right anyway. I really do have to learn to read things more carefully before I jump in with both feet.


	16. Chapter 16

"The keys, Mr Deeks," Hetty prompts and then she actually snaps her fingers, like I'm a dog, or something. It's a fair bet she wouldn't bother trying that with Monty, who wouldn't even twitch an ear, far less react in the expected way. How come my dog is smarter than me?

You know something? I was actually looking forward to coming in to work this morning. I had this corny idea they might have put some streamers round my desk, maybe bought in some pastires – you know, the kind of things you do for a colleague who nearly died. Can I just repeat that? I nearly died out there, people. And this is my first day back. Is it too much to expect Hetty might actually be a little bit considerate, rather than subjecting me to ritual humiliation in front of everyone? And if she really has to do this (which I don't think she does) then couldn't she at least take me to one side and do it in private?

I can feel a flush of anger, mixed with a healthy dose of embarrassment start to rise up as I dig in my pockets and eventually locate the damn keys, which I deposit in her outstretched hand. And I feel exactly like a kid again, just like that time back in third grade…

_I'm eight years old, burning with shame and just wanting to run away. Only I can't because the teacher is holding onto my arm and looking at the bruises on it, while the other kids giggle and nudge each other. There's a look in her eyes and even though I'm just a little guy, I can recognise pity when I see it and that just makes things worse, so I tell her I fell over. And then John Young (may he rot in hell) sniggers and says 'Marty falls over a lot, Miss Ainslie,' in a snide tone of voice. I wait until recess and then I flush his head down the toilet. _

_Miss Ainslie makes sure she talks to my Mom when she comes to pick me up at the end of the day, and Mom's face grows red and angry, then she starts shouting. I don't like it when she shouts and I usually go to my room and hide under the bed. There's nowhere to run to at school though, so I just have to stand there and make like nothing is happening while Miss Ainslie talks in a low, calm voice, that just makes Mom more annoyed. We've got this gerbil in a cage at the back of the classroom and I go over and watch how he's running round and round in his wheel, going nowhere fast, trapped in that cage. I kind of know how he feels. We move a week later and I go to a new school. I don't get any more bruises on my arms though. They take more care after that. _

"Thank you." Hetty's fingers close around my keys and I feel absurdly disappointed, like part of my life's been taken away. Okay, it was just a crappy car, a Chevy Malibu of all things – but it was my car.

"Don't you have something to say?" Callen enquires.

I don't know – do I? How about 'thanks for a really crappy welcome back to work?' I really am trying not to just open my mouth and say the first thing that comes into my head, so I just sort of shrug.

"Why don't you ask Hetty what the doctor did say?" Kensi suggests, with just the merest hint of patronisation in her voice, like I'm some sort of not-very-able child. Et tu, Kensi?

"Or maybe she could just tell me?" I'm guessing it has to be bad news, because Hetty has pocketed my keys. One month's driving ban? Two? Surely if I had brain damage I would have noticed by now – wouldn't I? Or is that one of the signs of brain damage?

"Play nicely, Deeks." Great, even Sam's joined in now. What is this: have a dig at Deeks day?

Oh well, if you can't beat them, then your next best bet if to lull them into a false sense of security. John Young can tell you how that one worked out for him. He cried for two hours straight after his impromptu shower and Miss Ainslie just told him to be a man. I think she guessed it was me. Perhaps it was the big grin on my face that gave me away?

"What did the doctor say?" I say wearily. I've been back at work for ten minutes and already I want to go home. Some days I wonder why I bother, I really do.

Hetty bestows a benevolent smile upon me. Whoopee. That's working. I feel so much better. Not. "He said there was no reason that you shouldn't start driving again. As long as you don't push yourself too hard."

"Really?" Now I am officially confused.

"Yes, really." Kensi gives me a look that clearly indicates she will physically restrain me if I don't take things easy. Which sounds pretty good to me. There's nothing like a little light bondage to make you feel alive. How handy that NCIS equips all its agents with handcuffs. Just wait till I get her home.

"So can I have my keys back?"

"Regretfully, no. And that is on the express instructions of Director Vance."

I knew it. That guy has never liked me. Somehow, guys with Marine buzzcuts often take an automatic dislike to me, although I can't work out why.

Hetty holds out her hand again, and this time there's a brand keychain sitting in her palm, with a logo that is instantly recognizable even from ten paces away (I've learnt to always keep a safe distance between myself and the miniature ninja), complete with a very familiar logo. "Director Vance thought it was about time you had a vehicle that was more suitable. And I agree with him. Enjoy."

Okay. I've been had. I've been well and truly had and I've fallen for it, hook, line and sinker.

I can't move. Really, I actually can't move. All I can do is just stand there and kind of gawp. This has to be a wind-up, doesn't it? I'm going to go outside and find this little model car sitting there in my space in the parking lot, because it's always been Sam and Callen who get the performance cars, not me. They get Aston Martins, and Bentleys and Dodge Challengers, and I get a Chevy Malibu. It wasn't until Hunter came along that I even got a parking space. It's a fact that you can tell your standing in any organization by the position of your desk (Hetty has the power corner, cunningly situated so that she can keep a beady eye on everything) and where your parking spot is. Mine is in the far corner of the lot. Callen's is closest to the door. Go figure.

"Are you getting all this, Nell? Because I don't think we're ever going to see Deeks completely speechless again. This is a once in a lifetime occasion."

I look up to see that Nell is standing there on the balcony, capturing all this for posterity on a camera, and that's when I realise my mouth is hanging open and I probably look like I'm first cousin to the village idiot. Meanwhile, Sam and Callen are grinning like they're fit to burst and practically thumping each other on the back in one of their shows of macho bonding. Fair enough – whatever turns them on.

"Go on. Take them," Hetty encourages me, and behind her I can see Kensi is looking at me, with something that's awfully close to pride in her eyes. That's when I know this is for real, that it isn't a joke. Because Kensi wouldn't lie to me. She's genuinely happy for me. So I take the keychain, and look at the shield logo with the black horse in the middle in a sort of stupor of disbelief, before staggering in a semi-coordinated fashion towards the courtyard.

I have just died and gone to heaven. There is most definitely a God and he is so good. And this was actually worth getting shot for. Well, almost. Because sitting outside the main door of the Mission is a new car. And not just any new car, but a brand new Porsche 911S Turbo. I know this because Kensi whispers that in my ear as I just stand there, looking at this thing of power and beauty. Now, normally a car is pretty much just a car to me – a method of getting me from A to b as quickly as possible. But this isn't a car. It's a Porsche. And, better than that – it's my Porsche. And it's top of the range, with a dark blue metallic exterior. I'm practically drooling, just looking at it.

The minute I open the door the tempting scent of expensive leather upholstery comes floating out towards me and I still can't quite believe it. This is the sort of car that grown men dream about, and all of a sudden I have this image about how cool Kensi and I are going to look together in it. I always thought I could look like a rock star if only I had the right sort of ride and now I'm going to get to find out if I'm right.

"I'm expecting you to take good care of this vehicle, Mr Deeks." Hetty hands me a procurement form and I scrawl my signature on the bottom of it, accepting responsibility for this beautiful beast of a car. I'd happily sign in blood, if that was what was required. I've never bothered that much about cars – until now. Suddenly Sam's obsession with his Challenger seems perfectly normal.

"I'll make sure he washes and waxes it every weekend," Kensi vows. "And that he rubs saddle soap into the seats too."

_**11. Care.**__  
>Consider getting something to take care of together: a fish, a dog, a chia pet…whichever you prefer. Sometimes sharing responsibility can promote the idea that you are a team and bring you closer.<em>

I have to bite my tongue so that I don't say that is fine by me – as long as she's there to help.

"Just make sure he doesn't trample sand into the interior and I'll be happy," Hetty says tartly. "Or rather, Director Vance will be happy."

Hmmm – was that a slip up on her part? Surely Hetty couldn't have twisted Vance's arm to make him agree to this – could she?

"Thanks, Hetty. Really – thank you." I run my hand over the roof of the car, still trying to take it all in.

"Why don't you get in and then take it for a spin?" she suggests, and it's almost like she's my indulgent maiden aunt or something, giving me a present for being a good boy. And do you know what? That's fine, that is absolutely fine with me. I've no objection to that in the slightest. I know from the look on Hetty's face that she has twisted Vance's arm to get him to agree to letting me have this car and she knows that I know – and that's fine. Well, seeing as how Hetty is my official next of kin, why shouldn't she spoil me a bit? She might be the world's most unlikely fairy godmother, but that woman has a heart of gold, careful hidden away behind armour-plating.

My leg is still a bit stiff, but there is nothing that's going to stop me driving this car today. The seat feels like it was made for me, like it is cradling me in its grip. And when I turn the engine on, it purrs into life, with a low, throaty roar. This isn't a car – this is sex on four wheels. This is the sort of car that guarantees you are going to get great sex. And talking of great sex, Kensi is standing there, watching as I make final adjustments to the seat and mirrors, so that everything is just perfect. And that's when I realise that this won't be half as much fun without her.

"How about you come with me?" If a thing is worth doing, then it's worth sharing. Do you know, I think I'm getting the hang of this whole business about being a better partner? It's not really that hard after all – in fact, it's not hard at all. Not when your partner is Kensi.

She gets in and gives a little wriggle of happiness. "This is better than your Chevy."

"Way better." I can't resist revving the engine, and you can just feel all that power building up and just waiting to be released. I'm officially in love. And the car isn't bad either.

Callen leans in through the window. "You do know how to drive a stick-shift, don't you Deeks?"

"Learnt to drive using a stick-shift. Back when I was all of twelve." Why don't you go teach Hetty how to suck eggs, Callen? Of course I can drive a manual transmission. Ray only stole the best cars, after all – the expensive imports from Europe, where they regard automatics as sissy. It's something you never forget, so when I engage the clutch and slide the car into first gear, it reacts as smoothly as silk.

"Don't let Kensi drive, whatever you do," Sam yells as I accelerate out of the gates of the Mission and start to make my way towards the freeway so we can see exactly what this car is capable of.

"You're not going to listen to him, are you?" Kensi asks anxiously. I know she's dying to get behind the wheel of the Porsche and I can't blame her. To be honest, Kensi is a terrible driver. I always get the impression she learned to drive in a tank and she's never really realised that she doesn't have to be that aggressive under normal conditions.

"Baby, you can drive my car." She can do whatever she wants. Once I've given her a few lessons, of course. This is a Porsche, after all. But right now the open road is beckoning and we've got the coolest, most amazing car and I can't wait to see what it's going to do. Right now, anything is possible and life seems very good indeed. Life seems almost perfect, if you want the truth.


	17. Chapter 17

So, there we are: me and Kensi in this amazing car on one of those fabulous California days that seems like it's going to go on forever, with a clear sky that is the personification of cerulean blue and the sun pouring down so brightly that it almost seems unreal, like you're in a move or something. The road is stretching out ahead of us, straight and true and it's so tempting just to keep on driving and basically never go back. It's all about the journey and it's on days like these that you feel anything is possible, if you only want it badly enough. In a car like this you feel like anything is possible, there are no limitations, so why on earth shouldn't we just keep on driving and never stop until we decide to stop? Or, on a more practical level, until we need gas, or a comfort break. Or maybe when we get to Vegas… And no, I'm not thinking of one of those drive-through wedding chapels. Of course I'm not, because I wouldn't do that to Kensi. She'd probably disembowel me if I even suggested it.

Not that I'm thinking of marriage, because I've spent the last ten years making sure I never get anything like remotely near to even thinking about marriage. And because if (and I'm talking purely hypothetically here) if I was to propose to Kensi, and if she was to say yes, then I'd want to do it properly. What am I talking about? I think this car is seriously interfering with my ability to think rationally. Anyway, let's be honest, if we were going to get married, then I wouldn't have a choice in the matter, because Kensi would see to that – she'd have everything organized within an inch of its life. Women tend to go slightly crazy when it comes to weddings, and I've seen enough of my friends go down that route to know that the man's job is to stand well-back and just agree with everything the bride says and everything the bride wants, even if that means selling yourself into indentured servitude for the rest of your life. And before you say that we've only been together for a couple of weeks, and that I'm moving much too fast, much too soon, can I just remind you that we've been together as partners for over eighteen months. The way I look at it, we've had the longest unconsummated relationship in history.

So while it would be very easy just to keep on driving right up to infinity, that's not going to happen. Besides which, I bet Hetty is tracking us – and not just by GPS. I bet she's got Eric following us by traffic cameras and she might even have got him to hack into a satellite. I have learnt (the hard way) not to underestimate Hetty.

"We'd better think about getting back." If I don't turn back now, I'm never going to.

"I guess." Kensi doesn't sound any more enamored with the idea than I do.

"Maybe we could go somewhere at the weekend? Get out of LA. We go away somewhere for the weekend. Just the two of us. Together." It seems very important to add in that last word, just so there's no misunderstanding.

**_12. Make time._**_  
>Your relationship should be one of the most (if not the most) important things in your life. Don't let the daily drudge get in the way of spending time with your loved one. Find the time to watch a movie or go for a walk or eat dinner together. Cancel other plans or meetings if necessary, but remember - how can you be "together" if you spend no time together?<em>

"Together?" Kensi stares straight ahead, watching as the road unfolds in front of us. I sneak a glance and her face is totally unreadable. "As in 'you and me' together? Like a couple?"

"That was sort of the idea." I've judged this completely wrong, haven't I? It's too much, too soon, isn't it? I'm pushing her and she's going to feel threatened and back away. And up until now I've been doing such a great job about thinking before I speak. It's this car, that's the problem. This car has given me delusions of grandeur, like I'm omnipotent or something. Mind you, I'd rather be omnipotent than impotent. Just saying, that's all. Not that I've ever had any problems in that department.

"Oh good. I thought that's what you meant." Kensi stretches luxuriously in the seat and I notice, not for the first time, how insanely long her legs are. Nobody wears a pair of jeans quite like Kensi. "That sounds pretty good. Let's do it."

Yippee! There should be fireworks going off, and bands playing. As it is, I just have to concentrate very hard so that I don't crash the car or crunch the gears or do something gauche and immature. I am an adult. NCIS trusts me to carry a gun. Who am I kidding? I feel like I'm seventeen again and it feels great. I feel like I could sprint up Mount Everest and do a hundred press-ups at the summit. While juggling three oranges.

"Let's do it." Birds do it, bees do, even educated fleas do. Let's do it… and no, I am not going to finish that. You know the next line, and so do I. So let's just leave it at that, okay? Although come the weekend, I'm hoping Kensi and I might just start to move towards taking that next step by talking about how we feel and where things are going. For once, I want to talk about how I feel and what I want from this relationship. I want it all. I want Kensi. I just want to be with her, because being with Kensi is what makes me happy. I've got it bad, haven't I? And the funny thing is, I've never felt happier.

Okay. So far, so good. Now, all I have to do is play this cool. The last thing I want to do is let Kensi see how insanely excited the idea of going away somewhere together is making me. The only problem now is: where do we go? Where the hell do we go? Now normally my first choice would be to go down to Big Sur, but that's because of the surfing you get there. And funnily enough, I'm not planning on surfing this weekend. So what I need is somewhere that's far enough from LA so that there's no danger of anyone spotting us, and with scope for romantic walks, candlelit dinners for two… and of course somewhere that is available at short notice. And then I have a brainwave.

"I've got a buddy with a place in Carmel. I'm pretty sure he'd lend it to us. If that's okay with you?" Matt owes me after all.

"Carmel sounds wonderful."

It's at this point that I'm beginning to wonder if I've slipped into an alternative reality. It's not just that Kensi isn't arguing with me, she's not even putting up a token resistance. Everything is going far too well. Maybe I hit my head really hard when I was shot and this is all some sort of hallucination?

Breathe, Deeks – just breathe. You can do this. It's not really that much of a big deal, after all. Its just a weekend away together. Like we're a real couple, or something, instead of partners who just happen to have great sex. Repeatedly, and in a number of inventive ways. I mean, we've practically been living together for the last couple of weeks. We've certainly been sleeping together. Not that there's actually much sleep involved, I have to admit. Kensi wants to play this cool – so just play along with her. And do not think about playing with her, because you're liable to crash the car and Hetty will be so mad if anything happens to it.

"That's great. I'll make a couple of calls and see what I can arrange." If I have to, I'll make it worth his while. I'll bribe him, if that's what it takes.

"Not at work. Someone might overhear."

Did you hear that loud thud back there? That was the sound of me, crashing back to reality with a vengeance. Kensi is still determined to keep our 'thing' a secret, hidden away like something dirty. It's like she's ashamed or something and it's really starting to bug me. What would be so wrong with just saying casually on Friday afternoon, "Hey, I'm going to finish up early, because Kensi and I are going to Carmel for the weekend"? Exactly who would it hurt?

"Don't worry. I'll be careful."

Kensi shoots me a glance. "You'd better be."

Fair enough. I know my place. And right now, that's under her thumb, apparently. Fair enough.

* * *

><p>So I spend the rest of the week alternatively ploughing through piles of paperwork that Hetty has kindly rootled out from some deep, dark recesses known only to her, and dreaming about the weekend. Matt's house is one of the classic Carmel 'fairytale' cottages and I'm hoping it's going to work its magic on us. If I remember correctly, it's just a short walk from beach and I'm picturing moonlit walks along the sands and then sitting in the hot-tub drinking champagne underneath the stars. Did you know that the champagne saucer glass is supposed to have been based on Diane de Poiter's breasts? That just leads me into another daydream, where this time I'm drinking from a glass the exact size and shape of Kensi's breasts, and then I'm pouring champagne over her breasts and… and I think I need to go outside for some fresh air. It's kind of hard to breath right now.<p>

"Mr Deeks? Is everything alright?"

"I just need to go outside for a minute, Hetty."

She is at my side in an instant. Faster than a speeding bullet, and all that. "You do look a trifle peaky." Hetty tucks her hand under my elbow, and leads me solicitously into the courtyard. "Sit down and don't move."

"I'm fine," I protest, sitting down like I've been told. Only someone with a death wish disobeys Hetty, after all. The next thing I know, her hand is on the back of my head and she's pressing down with an incredible amount of force for someone so small. "Yeoch! That hurt."

"I am so sorry." I've never heard Hetty sound so flustered before. "I completely forgot about your head injury. How could I do something like that? I mean, you were unconscious for two days."

What? They've never said anything about that. How could they forget to mention something like that? Two days? Two whole days and two whole nights? That was pretty major, even by my standards.

"I think we need to talk, Hetty."

"Oh bugger."

Oh bugger indeed. It seems like there's quite a bit they've not been telling me.


	18. Chapter 18

The courtyard is quiet: the sun is beating down and being reflected back by the white-painted adobe walls. I sit on a dilapidated bench and stare at this little bird that's having a dust bath: it seems happy enough, completely impervious to everything that's going on inside the Mission, to all the death and destruction that is plotted and planned inside its walls. Life must seem very sweet if you are a small bird on a beautiful day like today.

"Two days, Hetty? I was out of it for two whole days? And you only just think to mention it now?"

"I thought Miss Blye might have said something."

"Well, she didn't. And neither did the doctor, or any of the nurses when I was in hospital. Funny that, eh?" It's not funny. It's not even mildly amusing. It's downright disturbing, that's what it is. I feel like I've been lied to. Wait a minute – I have been lied to. They've deliberately withheld the truth from me and in my book that counts as a lie. And there is only one person who has the authority and sheer power of personality to insist that this was withheld from me. All of a sudden, the glare from the sunlight is hurting my eyes. "How about we talk about this inside?" I'll be able to think better inside. Things will make more sense then. I hope.

I lead the way, and Hetty follows, talking quietly into her cellphone. I know exactly who she is calling, no doubt bringing them back here on the double: my team mates. One of whom just happens to be my lover. My secret lover. In other words, all the people who have been colluding to keep me in a state of ignorance about what happened. This is my body – I have a right to know the full facts.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Hetty asks, almost nervously as we enter her office area. I've never seen her quite so discomfitted. "I have a rather nice Orange Pekoe."

What I would really like is a belt of Jack Daniels, followed by another couple in quick succession, but even though I'm mad I've got enough sense not to say that, so I just shake my head. It occurs to me later on that was probably the most intelligent thing I could have done, because it tipped the balance of power in my favour. You see, everyone expects me to talk a lot, to provide a humorous running commentary on things. So when I'm silent, it's like the whole balance is upset. Confounding expectations, I think that's what they call it. Or maybe playing against type. Well, guess what? I'm not always in a good mood. There are days when I'm seriously pissed at the whole world, and whole weeks when I'm struggling just to keep going. I just chose not to share that. My personal feelings are none of anyone else's business. Except now. Now I am furious and I don't care who knows it. But I'm going to save my wrath until the rest of the gang of four arrive.

So I just sit in that low chair opposite Hetty's desk, cunningly chosen so she can look down upon her hapless victim, and I brood. You might call it sulking, but I prefer to think that I was thinking really hard and planning my strategy, which isn't going too well. So far all I can think of to say is "It's not fair." That is not going to win me credibility points, mainly because it sounds totally pathetic and ike something a six year old might say. Then again, they've been treating me like I'm about six. I sit and rack my brain, while trying not to worry too much about said brain, and any damage it might have sustained. Because two days is a really long time to be unconscious. I knew I'd hit my head hard, because there's an area about four inches in diameter just below the crown that is still kind of tender to the touch, plus I've been getting these headaches recently. I put it down to coming back to work and just being tired, but now I'm starting to worry. And my head is really starting to thump quite badly.

Meanwhile, as I sit doing my best impersonation of Rodin's _The Thinker_, Hetty is bustling about her office space, tea cup and saucer in hand. She's not fooling me, because she's not actually drinking her tea. It must be stone cold by now, as Hetty indulges in a little light dusting of her various treasures, clearly her version of a displacement activity. God this place is weird. Seriously weird. They used to talk about a cabinet of curiousities, well this is an office of oddities. Only Hetty would have a shell casing sitting next to a Russian Orthodox Icon and find that perfectly normal. A psychologist would have a field day in here. Maybe that's why Nate was sent away, before he could file a report on her? Anything is possible in the madhouse that calls itself NCIS. I'm beginning to wonder if the Porsche was an attempt to soothe the collective guilty conscience of my team. Either that or a bribe to keep me sweet when I eventually found out. Newsflash: it's not working, guys.

Eventually, the guys come trooping in, trying not to look too hangdog.

"I said we should have told him." Sam at least has the guts to look me in the eye. I remember how he'd behaved when I was newly home (basically in super-protective mode) and it all starts to make sense now I come to think about it.

"Appreciate it, man."

"I was overruled. I told them you'd find out." He sits down, crosses his arms and stares at Hetty. "I told you that Deeks had the right to know. He's not a little kid. And it's his body."

Somehow Sam has managed to put my jumbled thoughts about this whole thing into a few short sentences, and I'm grateful.

"I apologise most sincerely, Mr Deeks. I did what I thought was right at the time. You'd been so very ill and we didn't want to put any additional stress on you, in case it hindered your recovery." Hetty finally stops pacing around like a polar bear in a too small enclosure, sits down and rests her chin on her folded hands. "I really am so very sorry. But it was such a terrible time and we were all so worried."

Great. Now she's making me feel guilty all over again for having the temerity to get shot and nearly die. The woman is a genius. But my anger starts to dissipate, because I know this is genuine. Hetty is completely genuine in what she's saying, and she also really moved. Which means one thing: it was bad.

"How about you tell me about it?" Because the last thing I remember was lying on the sidewalk with Kensi silently mouthing 'I love you' and then there was nothing until I woke up again days later to find I was in a hospital bed with Hetty bending over me. Talk about going from the sublime to the downright scary.

There's a hand on my shoulder and I look up to see that Kensi is standing right behind me.

"You fractured your skull," she says, in a voice that is perhaps just a little too controlled. But only if you know her as well as I do. By now I think I know every single nuance of her voice. "When you went down, you hit your head on the sidewalk with such force that you fractured your damned skull, Deeks." Her fingers tighten so that her nails are digging into my skin, rooting me in reality, and giving me some small insight into the pain my team went through. I was hurt – and they were hurting for me. That makes me feel quite small.

I can hear what she's not saying, the significance of all the words, thoughts and feelings that she can't quite bring herself to actually verbalise and I reach up to take hold of her hand, half-wondering if Kensi will try to brush the intimate gesture away. She doesn't. Instead, she weaves her fingers through mine. And it feels good.

"You fractured your skull, and you were unconscious. That's all they could tell us," Callen adds. "They didn't know why you were unconscious or when you'd wake up again."

"It was worse than that," Sam interjects brusquely. "Deeks – the truth is that they didn't know if you would wake up at all."

"Okay." It's all starting to make sense now. That's kind of scary stuff. And if it's scary for me to hear about, what must have it been like for them to have to live through?

"There's no lasting damage, if that's what you're worried about," Kensi adds, still holding onto my hand for grim death. I wonder if she held my hand when I was unconscious? "None at all. They did a number of tests on you in the hospital before you were released and you came through just fine."

"They said you were normal." A smile creeps across Sam's face. "I said they must have tested the wrong guy, cos you ain't normal, Deeks. No way."

"They said he had no cognitive impairment, Mr Hanna," Hetty corrects primly. "And that there should be no lasting side effects." She peers at me over the top of her glasses. "Do you have side effects?"

There is something in the way that Hetty looks at you that makes it almost impossible to lie. "I've got a bit of a headache." Talk about the understatement of the century. AS headaches go, this one is currently registering about an six on the Richter scale and I've got the definite impression it's about to get a whole lot worse.

"For how long?" Kensi is all crisp efficiency and she drops my hand and comes round to look at me properly for the first time since she came back in. "Deeks?"

I can't lie to her, not when she's looking at me like that, with her eyes so huge and dark. "On and off since yesterday afternoon? But it's no big deal." At least I hope it isn't. It's Thursday and we're leaving for Carmel tomorrow afternoon. Nothing is going to spoil this weekend. Nothing.

"I think we'll let the doctors be the judge of that." Callen is so smooth, so relaxed, you'd almost believe this wasn't a big deal. If you didn't know him, that is. I can see the way his eyes narrow slightly when he looks at me, the way his whole body language changes almost imperceptibly, so that he goes from relaxed to tense in the blink of an eye. "Kensi – you drive Deeks. And make sure he tells them everything."

They're taking charge of my life again, making all these important decisions for me and without consulting me. And you know what? That is absolutely fine. I know exactly why they're doing that – because they are frightened. And because they care about me. So why would I possible object? Especially as there is this band of pain tightening around my head right now.

"Some people will do anything to get the rest of the week off," Sam grumbles in a wholly unconvincing manner. "He's not to come back until Monday, is he Hetty? No matter what the hospital says?"

Hetty shakes her head emphatically. "Indeed no."

That's me told then. I realise that they need to do this, and I need to let them. Life is all about compromises. And anyway, it's just a headache. I'm fine. I am absolutely fine. Aren't I?

* * *

><p>"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Kensi asks.<p>

"Anybody can mistime a gear change if they're not used to driving a stick shift," I lie. It was just that I could almost hear shards of metal being sheared off as she crashed the gears and it was hard not to cringe.

"I'm not talking about that."

"Yeah, I know. And I'm not mad at you." It's just that the sunlight is making my headache worse, and even with my sunglasses on and my eyes tight shut it still hurts. "Can we not do this right now?"

"Sure. Whatever you want."

I just want to lie down in a cool, dark room and have some heavy-duty painkillers.

"I really am sorry," she says.

"I know."

And I know I'm repeating myself, only it's getting a bit hard to think straight right now. I can hear the revs increase and the engine change tone as Kensi accelerates through the traffic. If I keep telling myself that I'm fine I might start to believe it. It's starting to get really hot inside the car and I can feel beads of sweat start to form on my forehead. And then there is a blessed blast of icy cold air, as Kensi adjusts the air-con, just in time because I really think I might throw my guts up, right over the interior of this great car. And that's the last thing I want to do. I've never had a new car before and I don't think I'm ever likely to get a brand new Porsche again, so I'm determined not to ruin it within the first week. Even Hetty would struggle to be reasonable and understanding about that, I think.

"We'll be there soon."

I don't open my eyes, for the simple reason that I can't right now. It's taking me all my time not to pass out here, but I can picture how Kensi looks: both hands on the steering wheel and staring ahead with grim determination as she drives as fast as she dares.

"Keep talking." It helps to have something to concentrate on, rather than just the pain. "Tell me what you said to me in the hospital."

"When you were unconscious? What didn't I say to you is more like it." The strained tone starts to seep out of her voice. "Well, I sat there, and I was holding your hand…"

"_You've got nice hands, Deeks. I never told you that before, did I? I never said a whole lot of things. But you have got nice hands. Big and strong, but kind of fluid and flexible, with long, supple fingers. If I only saw your hands and had to guess at what you did, then I'd guess you were maybe an artist, or a pianist. Maybe even a surgeon. But not a cop." Kensi picked up the still hand and held it in her own, gently stroking it with her thumb._

_Deeks lay completely motionless in bed, save for the regular rise and fall of his chest._

"_You look like you're sleeping, do you know that? Like you're sound asleep and perfectly at peace. I don't know where you are right now, or what you are dreaming, Deeks – but you shouldn't be there. You should be right here with me. That place isn't for you, so come back to me. Please?"_

* * *

><p><em>Ah- is Kensi finally about to reveal how she really feels? But will it be too late? Evil and Slushy plot bunnies are eyeing each other up once again...<em>


	19. Chapter 19

_We're still seeing things through the mirror of Kensi's recollection..._

* * *

><p><em>Kensi waited for a moment but only silence greeted her, so she contented herself by raising Deeks' hand up to her lips, dropping a kiss in the palm and then folding his fingers over it.<em>

"_You're a great partner, Deeks. You make me laugh and you make me have fun, despite myself. And I know that you are always there for me. Do you know that you are the one person in the whole world that I trust implicitly? No, of course you don't, because I've never told you, have I? Well, I'm telling you now. You are a great partner, Deeks. And you're a pretty amazing person too. You might try to hide it, but I can see what a big heart you have, maybe too big. You might think you can fool everyone else, but you can't fool me. You see, I know you too well. You try to pretend that you are fine, that you've got everything you could possibly want from life, but that's not the truth, is it? You're just as broken inside as I am."_

_She'd never admitted that to anyone before and most of the time Kensi even tried to deny it to herself, but it was true: she was so screwed up inside that there were some days when nothing seemed to make any sort of sense at all. And now, having finally acknowledged her wounds, she found that her eyes were full of tears, so many that her vision was becoming hazy. Kensi gently laid Deeks' arm back down on the bed and reached for a tissue._

"_See what you've done, Deeks? You've made me cry. You stupid, selfish man. I don't cry. I never cry. So don't do this to me, please? Just wake up. I need you, Deeks. I need you to help me make sense of things. I need you to be looking out for me, and I need you to come round with burgers and beer when I've had a crappy day. I just need you, period. Remember when Hunter switched the whole team around and how wrong it felt? Working with Callen was like putting on a pair of shoes that belonged to someone else. And it's a hundred times worse with you lying in that bed, completely out of it. If you knew how much I needed you, then you wouldn't be doing this to me."_

_But it was no good. No matter what she said, it didn't make any difference. Kensi knew that, she had always known that, it was just that the nurses had said that sometimes patients in a coma could still hear what was being said to them. She had seized onto that message, certain that if anyone could bring Deeks back, then it would be her. Only she was wrong. Nothing she had said had made the slightest bit of difference._

"_Come on, Marty. Come back to me. See what I did there? I called you Marty. And I don't do that. I don't do begging either, but I'm going to make an exception here, because you are worth it. You are so worth it. And do you want to know why? Well actually I don't care if you want to know or not, because for once I've got a captive audience and you can't talk back. So that's one good thing that's come out of this, right? I get to talk and you get to listen without interrupting. _

_You are worth me crying and begging and basically doing whatever the hell I have to do to bring you back. I am not going to give up on you, Marty – because I need you. It's as simple as that. I need you in my life. Don't make a big thing out of that though, okay? It's not like I'm in love with you, or anything like that. Although I might be. I just need you, because I've just discovered that there's big hole appeared in my life right now, and you are the only one who can fill it and make things right again._

_You just get to me, Marty Deeks. You get to me in so many ways and I just can't help myself. I tried so hard not to give in, but in the end I guess I didn't try hard enough, because look at me – I'm a wreck. I've not slept since you were shot, my eyes are swollen so much I look like a pig, my nose is running and my hair looks like a bird's nest. You want to know why? Because I don't dare leave you, in case you do something stupid when I'm gone. Like dying or something. That is exactly the sort of thing you would do, isn't it? Just to show me. Hard luck, Marty – because I'm here and I'm not going anywhere until you finally wake up. Okay? So just give in now. You might think you are stubborn, but you don't know anything. I wrote the book on stubborn – only I call it strong-willed. It sounds better that way._

_Come on. I can't take much more of this. You're killing me here, Marty. Little bit by little bit. I need you. I need you so much. You just complete me. Come back to me – please come back to me. You've even got me calling you Marty, and I never do that. Not ever. You name me one time when I have called you Marty? See – you can't. Do you want to know why? It's simple. Deeks is my partner, the man I work with on a professional basis. And Marty is the man I'd like to have in my personal life. _

_So know you know. Finally I've said it. I've got a thing for you. I guess I always have had, right from the start. It might even be love. And there's only one way you can find out – and that's by waking up. Oh Marty, if you just wake up I'm going to take such good care of you, I promise."_

_It was no good. Nothing she said made any difference, because he just lay there. Kensi was aware that she had finally revealed all her secrets, had exposed the very core of her being and yet it had not made any difference at all. Having put all her cards down on the table and backed them up with everything she owned, it was only to find her hand was royally trumped. She wasn't used to being this helpless, to finding herself in a situation where nothing she said or did made any difference at all._

* * *

><p>Kensi's voice falters and she starts over again. "Well, I sat there, and I was holding your hand… and I told you that I'd kill you if you died on me, which was kind of stupid, seeing how I was convinced you were either going to die or stay in a coma forever. And I told you to start making an effort and stop being so lazy, because there was no way I was going to adopt Monty just so you could lie in bed and look gorgeous for your adoring fans."<p>

That doesn't sound right. In fact, I'm pretty sure that wasn't the way it went down, because I do have these vague, disturbing memories of hearing Kensi's voice, and how I kept trying to drift away, like floating in a boat going downstream, only she kept yanking me back. The way I remember it, she kept telling me how great I was and how she needed me. But it's probably just an illusion, my mind keeps playing these tricks on me. Kensi doesn't need anybody – she never has and she never will. This is Kensi, who is so independent that she won't even let our closest friends know we're going away for the weekend together. But if that's the way she wants to play it, then fine.

"You would have taken Monty?" I ask. "Really?"

"What – you think I would have put him into a shelter? As if. Who would adopt Monty? Apart from you." The car stops and she puts her hand on my knee. "We're here now. And about Monty? Just so you know, if I'd had to, then I would have taken him willingly and I would have loved him just as much as I could. Because you loved him. You saw past everything else and you loved him. So I would have loved him, because that way I could still keep on loving you."

Do you know something? If I died right now, then I'd die a happy man. Because I know exactly what she is saying. There will be other times when we can talk about things properly, and maybe even talk about love and commitment, but right now, Kensi has said everything I need to know. It's just that I wish she hadn't said it right at this particular moment when my head is killing me, because the proper response to that sort of thing is definitely not opening the car door and throwing up all over the hospital parking lot. Poor Kensi – what the hell has she got herself into with me?

"Sam needs to speak to you. I've told him the doctor said there was nothing to worry about, but he needs to hear it from you. Despite the fact you are supposed to be resting. Which I told him too."

Judging from the tone of Kensi's voice, and the way her lips are drawn into a thin, straight line, it is a good thing for the sake of Sam's continued health and well-being that he is not here right now.

"I'm fine, Sam. Just a killer headache, which is starting to go now." It's too much of a strain to keep my eyes open, so I just let them drift shut again. I was almost asleep when Kensi came in and now I'm fighting to stay awake.

"That's all? No blood clot or anything like that? You're absolutely sure?" Sam sounds like he's been climbing up the walls with anxiety. You've got to love the big guy and his even bigger heart.

"You've been researching on the internet again, haven't you?"

"Maybe."

I sigh. "Sam – I am fine. Apart from the headache. Which is going now, thanks to the meds. They scanned me again, and there's no blood clot – nothing abnormal. I've just got to take things easy. Like doing three or four hours at work, not a full day, for a bit."

Against all my objections, Kensi had stuck me in this wheelchair and belted along to the ER as hapless passers-by had scattered out of our way. I was feeling so ill that I just sat there, with my head in my hands, because it honestly felt as if it might explode, while Kensi took charge and basically told the medical personnel exactly what they were going to do. Maybe it was the way she said that, or perhaps it had something to do with the gun sticking out of the back of her jeans, or even the fact I threw up again, but I was rushed into this room, and all the poking and proding started all over again And then they made me pee into a cup. Why do doctors always want you to pee into a cup? I was kind of unsteady on my feet, and for one awful moment I thought Kensi was going to insist on helping me, but thankfully she restrained herself.

Anyway, it turns out that killer headaches are nothing unusual after a traumatic head injury. Which is what I'd had. And here I thought I'd just been knocked out. Traumatic head injury sounds a whole lot worse. It sounds like the sort of thing you die from. Or even the sort of thing that makes the people that care about you think you are going to die from. And Kensi kept looking at me like I was made out of glass and might just shatter at any second. But basically, it's all my own fault. This headache, I mean. The doctor had looked at me like I was mad when I'd told him I'd been doing full shifts. It just hadn't struck me that sitting at desk reading could be so tiring, both mentally and physically. So I'm under strict instructions to do no more than four hours and to gradually build my hours back up. For once in my life, I'm going to do as I'm told. I'd pretty much do anything if it means I'm not going to get another headache like this. It felt as if my head was going to explode with the pain.

The good thing is that I've got some new, super-powerful pain pills, the sort that make you feel like you've had three or four shots of tequila and some really good weed. It's the pharmaceutical equivalent of lying in new-mown grass on a hot summer's day and staring up at the sky, trying to vaporize clouds with your mind. What do you mean, you've never done that? You really need to get out and enjoy yourself a bit more. Open yourself up to all the possibilities that are out there – and there's a lot of them, believe me. The even better news is that I think I know where Kensi and I are going. The road ahead might still have a few twists and turns in it, but we can work that out.

Kensi grabs the phone back. "Happy now? Deeks is supposed to be resting, Sam. Not talking to you." She ends the call abruptly. "I told them all this back at the hospital, you know."

"He was just worried."

"Sam was worried? What about me?" And she sounds like she's almost at the end of her tether. I don't blame her. I try to think what I would have been like if the situation was reversed, and I can't begin to imagine it.

"I drove you half crazy, didn't I? Again?"

"More like three quarters crazy. And more of this and they're going to be measuring me for one of those wrap-around cardigans with the extra-long sleeves that tie behind your back. But it's not your fault. And I don't mind. Not really. It wasn't your fault you got shot." The bed dips as Kensi lies down beside me. "I don't mind at all, as long as you're here and you're fine. And you're mine. Nothing else matters."

"I'm yours." My arms reach out blindly for her, and she is right there, just like I knew she would be. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"Except to Carmel tomorrow afternoon. I asked the doctor, and he thought a change of scenery and some complete relaxation would do you a world of good." She sounds strangely smug about that. "And I will take such good care of you, okay?"

The meds are really starting to kick in now, and I can feel myself starting to drift away, with Kensi's arms around me, holding me safe, her fingers running gently through my hair and her lips gently kissing my forehead.

"I will take such good care of you, Marty. I promise. I'm going to love like nobody's loved you."

Maybe I did die when I was shot, because this seems awfully like heaven to me.

"Stay here?" I can't fight the medication any longer: it is pulling me down into velvet-tinged oblivion.

"I'll not going anywhere," she soothes. "I'm just going to lie here beside you, and tell you how much I love you. Because you walked into my life and everything changed. You wrapped my heart around your little finger just with your smile. I've got no defences against you, none at all. I just look at you, and there I go – head over heels in love with you all over again."

There I go too – right down into unconsciousness. Our timing sucks, big time. Kensi's saying all this, she's saying everything I've wanted to hear and I'm virtually passing out. But hey – she said she loved me. For the third time, I think. Maybe next time I might just be able to tell her how much I love her too? With just a little luck. I think I'm owed that much at least – aren't I?

* * *

><p><em>Awww! Slushy plot bunny wins. And now they've got Carmel to look forward to.<em>


	20. Chapter 20

"Callen? I hate to do this to you, but I really need a favour."

I've thought long and hard about this before finally gathering my courage together and making the call, but no matter how I look at things, it's the only thing I can think of, given the circumstance. I would have asked Sam to help, but he's got his family after all, and he deserves to be able to spend time with them over the weekend.

"Deeks? What's wrong? Are you feeling ill again?"

There's an air of barely repressed concern in Callen's voice and I have this suspicion that for the next six months or so all I'm going to have to do is sigh and the team will be hovering around me with these anxious expressions on their faces, like I'm going to peg out them, or something.

"I'm fine, Callen. Really. Just a bit tired."

The sigh of relief is quite audible, even down the phone. "Great. Make sure you don't do too much."

"I won't."

For starters, Kensi won't let me. She made that perfectly clear this morning before she left for work. I'm under strict instructions to sit and watch TV, with only excursions to the kitchen and bathroom being allowed. And then there is Hetty. If it gets back to Hetty that I've been disobeying doctor's orders today, then she is more than capable of insisting that I move in with her, so that she can keep a proper on eye on me and make sure that I do exactly what I am told. And, no offense to Hetty, but that's what I call a fate worse than death. Well, almost.

"So how can I help?"

I might as well just come straight out with it. "I need you to look after Monty for me."

Now, I actually feel quite bad about asking him to do this. Not only because it's putting Callen out, but also because I bet Monty would love to come to Carmel with us. He might even get to meet Doris Day's dogs. It's just that I need this weekend to be about me and Kensi, with no outside distractions, like a dog yelping to go out for a pee at 2am when you are otherwise engaged. Not that I'm planning on actually getting engaged, or even proposing, or anything like that at all: it's just a turn of phrase, so don't read anything into it. Anyway, even if I was (which I'm not, because it's far too soon and I've never exactly seen myself as the marrying kind) I'm not sure Kensi would say 'yes'. And you don't ask until you're certain, do you? Or have I got that wrong too?

"Oh yes – your weekend away. Kensi said you were going to Carmel."

"She did?" Well, knock me down and call me Joe. "Really?"

Hallelujah. Let joy be unconfined because Kensi's finally cracked and seen sense. I knew she would. I just had to give her enough space to do things in her own time, that was all. Good girl. I knew this would all turn out just fine. And Callen certainly seems calm enough about it. Almost like it's a non-event or something.

"Oh yes, she said you had a buddy with a house at Carmel and you'd arranged to go down for the weekend. Only what with the headaches and everything… well, you know what the doctor said. So Kensi's going to do the driving."

"That's right." Okay, I jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion there, didn't I? I'd forgotten just how cunning Kensi can be. It's the truth, of course – just not exactly the whole truth. Let this be a lesson to you: never, ever underestimate a woman, Deeks. "So you're okay to look after Monty?"

"Sure. No problem. I'll come over with Kensi this afternoon and pick him up. I think she said she was leaving about 2? I'll see you then."

"Thanks, Callen. I owe you."

"Anytime."

I end the call and turn to Monty. "Who's going to go have a sleepover with Uncle Callen then?"

Monty looks less than thrilled at this prospect. In fact, he puts his tail between his legs and then slinks off and tries to hide behind the curtains, just to show me exactly what he feels about this prospect. And I try not to feel guilty. It is ridiculous that my dog can make me feel this bad about wanting to have two days away. It's not like he owns me. And Callen will look after Monty – I know he will. Even if he hasn't even had a pet goldfish. After all, how much harm can he do to Monty in two days. It's no good. I'm feeling worse by the second and Monty is now making these pathetic little whimpering noises. Admitting defeat, I go get some cheese and sausage from the fridge and let him eat it out of my fingers. It won't do his gas problem any good, but I'm not going to be around this evening to get the worst of it, am I?

He's a nice guy, Callen. A really nice guy and I feel bad about deceiving him. Not only about Monty's slight flatulence problem, but about me and Kensi. Because it looks like this pretence is going to go on for just a little bit longer… I've got nothing else to do, so I haul out the magazine again and reread the last instruction again, just to check that I am really am doing the right thing.

_**12. Make time.**__  
>Your relationship should be one of the most (if not the most) important things in your life. Don't let the daily drudge get in the way of spending time with your loved one. Find the time to watch a movie or go for a walk or eat dinner together. Cancel other plans or meetings if necessary, but remember - how can you be "together" if you spend no time together?<em>

Well, that's a great big check right there. It's nice to know I'm on definitely the right lines for once in my life. Maybe this relationship thing isn't actually as hard as I thought it was? And maybe I need to give Kensi a copy of the article too? However, there might be another way to look at this: my article, the rules I've been trying to live by, was written by a woman. Now, the way I look at it, I've been trying to make a success of things by putting myself into a woman's shoes. Not that I could do that, on account of my feet being kind of large, even if I do take care of them. Hey, I like to wear flip-flops a lot of the time, and there's nothing worse than seeing a pair of feet that look more like hooves, is there? Anyway, that's beside the point. I just wanted to point out that although some people might think I'm kind of scruffy, I do actually have pretty high standards. But basically, I've been trying to get an insight into how Kensi might be viewing this whole thing we have and then trying to do the right thing. And it seems to be working. But what about the male point of view? Isn't that equally important? It does take two people to make a relationship work.

Anyway, seeing as how I'm under orders (on pain of death) to stay in the apartment and not do anything strenuous, I manage to toddle over and grab my laptop. There has to be something on the internet that's going to help me, doesn't there? Actually, I strike gold within five minutes, once I've managed not to click on all the slightly more dubious links when I enter in 'relationship advice', that is. It's quite simple, because it turns out that someone has already carried out the same search – and didn't delete the browser history. And seeing as how Monty doesn't have opposable thumbs, I'm pretty sure who that 'someone' is. Just to be quite sure, I go to have a look for the most recent documents opened. And guess what I find? A whole new document, consisting of a series of those handy hints that are distressingly familiar, but this time, with annotated comments. I have struck the mother-lode. Relationship gold mine.

I'm very tempted to read it. Of course I am. Try telling me you wouldn't be - and then go look in the mirror to see how long your nose has grown. Anyway, it's my laptop in the first place, so I've got every right, and in the second place, if Kensi didn't want me to read it, then she should have password-protected it, or emailed it to her own account and deleted the damned thing. The more I think about it, the more I convince myself that Kensi subconsciously wants me to read the thing. Plus, there's this is more temptation that any man could possibly resist, far less one who is completely clueless when it comes to relationships - like me. And then there is the small fact that I am basically incurably nosey. I can resist anything but temptation.

It turns out that Kensi has copied out a whole lot advice from something called Men's Line, which is in Australia. Now, Australian men are pretty macho, aren't they? That's the impression they give anyway, so this is looking more promising by the minute. Who better to tell it straight that an Australian man? This has got to be good. This could be exactly what I'm looking for. And when I open the document, I find it's even better than I could ever have hoped for, because Kensi's helpfully added her own comments. This is better than gold: this is actually going to let me see how women (or Kensi at least) actually think. It's pretty much what I've been look for my entire life: the secrets of the female universe laid open right before me.

_1. Develop a sense of trust - that is feeling that you can both be seen, heard, understood and accepted.  
><em>_**I trust Deeks. I'm just not sure I trust myself. **_

That's interesting. She trusts me – in a relationship sense? Wow. I'm impressed. I'm obviously doing better than I thought I was.

_2. Recognise that physical closeness is only one expression of intimacy. Intimacy can be verbal (e.g. telling your partner why you love them or things that you love about them), and it can also be expressed by doing special things for your partner or generally helping out with daily living tasks.  
><em>_**Easier said than done. I just want to be with him all the time. When I'm not with him, I'm thinking about him. Does taking care of Monty count? Doing his laundry?**_

I can't disagree with Kensi there, because I feel exactly the same way about wanting to be with her. I'm actually missing her right now and my apartment feels far too big and far too empty when she's not here. And, just for the record, looking after Monty does count. Ditto buying that robe and the candle. And while it was nice of her to do my laundry, it would have been good if she hadn't put her own stuff in too, including the tight-fitting red t-shirt I like so much. Because now my white boxers are pale pink. It's a good thing I'm secure about my sexuality. And only Kensi see them anyway and according to her I look pretty in pink.

_3. Acknowledge each other's need to be autonomous and to make your own decisions sometimes.  
><em>_**Not fair. I'm not going to answer this one. I'm not ready to tell other people about us yet. What if it doesn't work out? What if he leaves me? Because men always leave me. Why would anyone want to be with me, when they find out what the real me is like?**_

Okay, now I feel seriously bad. Why didn't she tell me any of this? And what am I going to do about it? That's the question, isn't it? Apart from telling her that wherever she goes, I go. No questions asked. And that I think she's great, just the way she is. No matter what, no questions asked at all. She's Kensi, and that is all that matter to me.

_4. Create a safe and open place, where you can both express problems, doubts, fears and weaknesses without fear of rejection or punishment.  
><em>_**Does talking in bed after we've made love count? Maybe this weekend in Carmel will give us the space we need. I hope so.**_

Sounds good to me. Carmel might just give us the space and time we both need, away from LA and everything else, like NCIS. Maybe we can be like normal people for a couple of days and forget about all the crap we deal with on a day to day basis and just concentrate on the moment – and each other?

_5. Be willing to communicate. This often includes sharing feelings, needs and wants. Note: Listening to your partners problems does not necessarily mean you are responsible for solving them.  
><em>_**Huh. This ignores the whole issue – it's not about communicating, it's about compromising. And I'm not good at that. Neither is Deeks, until he's backed into a corner and not given any choice. Which is what I've done. And anyway, Deeks doesn't talk about his past. I've tried, but he won't budge.**_

Okay, I've got to acknowledge that Kensi is, once again, completely right. I don't talk much about my past because, if you really want the truth, it was pretty messed up. But maybe I've got to start to change? Kensi said that she was scared I might leave if I found out what she was really like – only I do already. I know exactly what she is like and I love her. So maybe I've got to trust her enough to see the real me too?

_6. Be open to negotiate around your differences with respect and generosity. You are not going to get your own way all the time.  
><em>_**Some things are non-negotiable. Aren't they? Okay, I'm spitting in the wind here. Maybe we can agree to tell people on our one-year anniversary? Yeah, I can really see Deeks buying that.**_

You nailed that one, Kensi.

_7. Aim to be aware of personal issues you bring to the relationship (sometimes called 'baggage'), and take responsibility for these. Also be aware of the expectations you may place on others and assess how realistic they are.  
><em>_**I have the equivalent of a 747 cargo hold full of personal baggage. By the time I've assessed all that and the impact on this relationship, we are going to be in our eighties. And Deeks has a fair few hang-ups of his own. Basically, we're both pretty messed up individuals. This is never going to work, is it?**_

This is going to work because we both want it to work. And it's working, even if we are both completely screwed up. All I've got to do is to convince Kensi about that. By whatever means possible. I want this to work more than I've ever wanted anything.

_8. Regular time alone gives you space to recharge and rebalance. This will allow you to give more in your relationship in the long-run.  
><em>_**Excuse me? I don't want time alone. I want to be with Deeks. It's easy to see a man wrote this. Which means that Deeks wants time alone, doesn't it? So why did he suggest we go to Carmel? This doesn't make any sense at all. **_

I don't want time alone either. Except maybe to go surfing – but that could work, because Kensi could sit on the beach and watch. Better still, I could teach her to surf. Hmmm – the thought of Kensi in a wetsuit. Oh yes. That image is working for me.

_9. Maintain and build a supportive network of friends outside the relationship. No single relationship will meet every need.  
><em>_**Excuse me? Who wrote this stuff? And who am I supposed to talk to about things? Hetty? Nell? Yeah, right. I can see that happening round about the same time Deeks shaves his head.**_

Who writes these things? Do they honestly think that men have 'supportive' friends? Of course we don't. We try to be sympathetic, but it's never very successful, because it's simply not in our DNA. We just kind of pat people on the back and look uncomfortable ninety per cent of the time, until a woman comes to the rescue and shows us how it should be done. Men just can't relate to other men in the way that women relate to other women. Unless this piece is talking about manly-bonding over beer and sports, which is completely different. It's not like we talk about ourselves, or anything.

_10. Develop the capacity to not take yourself and everything else too seriously  
><em>_**This is the almost perfect definition of everything that Deeks is and everything that I am not. How many years of psycho-analysis do I need and how much is it going to cost? Nate – where are you when I need you? (NB: remember to ask Hetty about Nate. Where the hell is he? Not that I would ever talk to Nate about my love life, on account of the fact he's kind of got this thing for me, and that would be cruel).**_

Really? Now that's interesting. So she's not twigged that my joking about things is what they call a displacement activity? Because I kill people. That's kind of what I do for a living. Only with due provocation and due cause, of course – but in the end, what does that matter. In the end it come down to one thing: I have killed a lot of people and I have to live with knowledge. No matter how evil they might be, how utterly lacking in morals, the fact is that I take away life, and I know that for every life I take, there is at least one person who is mourning, whose life I have just devastated. You try living with that knowledge. So I joke about things: that's my way of coping. It doesn't mean I'm not bothered. But it's the only way I know how to try to live with myself.

This whole thing is interesting. It looks like Kensi is as confused by this whole business of being in a relationship as I am. And that's just fine. We can muddle along together. But Nate's got a thing for Kensi? Really? How weird. He's so not her type, after all. He's not - is he? Please don't tell me that Kensi's got a thing for Nate too or I just might have a relapse.


	21. Chapter 21

When did life get so complicated? That's what I'd like to know. It used to be that I meet a girl, we'd hook up, have a whole lot of fun and then after a while, we'd decide to go our separate ways, with no regrets on either side. Well, in the main. There were a few times when it got nasty. And one or two evenings when I just about drank my own body weight in beer and woke up every hour, on the hour, with a desperate urge to pee. Dating was just one of these things – everybody did it, and in the main, we knew it wasn't serious. But this is different. This is completely different, because this feels serious, like something that grown-ups do.

Wow. Exactly when did I become a grown-up and start thinking about behaving like a responsible adult? About two weeks ago, I guess. Right now I can see my future stretching out before me with one woman – the only woman for me and that seems just right. I think I'm in love with Kensi. No, scratch that. I know I'm in love with her. My days of roaming free and easy are over and that feels fine.

"I've got it bad, haven't I?"

Monty just looks at me and then does one of his moans, the sort that normally mean he's constipated and that when we go out I'm going to have to stand there, holding onto the lead and looking desperately in the other direction as he goes through a series of uncomfortable-looing contortions, complete with sound effects. Being a dog-owner isn't all wagging tails and happy puppy smiles, you know. But this time I reckon I'm safe: Monty's just empathizing with me, as far as a dog can – especially a dog who is rather lacking in certain accoutrements most males treasure.

Before you say anything – that was not my doing. As if. Talk about the cruelest cut. Monty was like that when I got him. Or rescued him. Whatever. Rescue always sounds so dramatic and they probably wouldn't have euthanized him anyway, not really. Only nobody else seemed interested in giving him a home, for some strange reason so I wasn't about to take that risk. It's not like Monty's one of these dogs that's aggressive or barks a lot or anything like that. You just have to look at Monty to see he's one of the most laid-back creatures you're ever going to meet. But that was the problem: people looked at Monty and they didn't see one of those cutesy dogs from the commercials; or a muscle dog that would make his owner look mean as they prowled the streets together. They just saw this kind of apathetic looking dog. So people just passed him by.

Of course, I've always been a bit of a sucker for the underdog – and I fell for Monty. There was just something about the way he looked at me… kind of like I was his last hope. Anyway, don't read too much into all that. When it comes right down to it, Monty needed a home and I wanted a dog. So we found each other. End of story. And we muddle along pretty well together. I think he's happy – it's just that he hasn't got the sort of face that can express joy real well. Just because he looks miserable most of the time doesn't mean that he is.

All this starts to make me feel bad about going away and leaving him, and Monty must sense this, because he starts giving me his pleading look, complete with pathetic whimper. We've had some great roadtrips in the past, me and Monty. And then I remember that we had Chinese takeaway last night, and there's still the remains of a bag of prawn crackers. Great – I can make myself feel better about going away with Kensi and Monty can have some fun and exercise at the same time. We spend a pleasant hour, with me lying on the sofa and lobbing prawn crackers around the room, so that Monty can amble after them, and then crunch them rapturously, leaving a trail of sparking white crumbs everywhere. Monty doesn't run, you see, far less jump. It's only in moments of extreme animation that Monty will go so far as to break into a brisk trot, and only until he realises what he's doing and then puts the brakes on. Which is not dissimilar to what I normally do when I find a relationship is getting just a bit too serious for comfort.

That was the old me. That was the Marty Deeks who ran a mile whenever the 'c-word' was mentioned – 'c' as in 'commitment'. That was then and this is now and I've done a lot of growing up without realizing it. Even if I am lying here, throwing food all over the room for my dog to hoover up. Now I look at everything in a different way, and I want different things. I want Kensi. I want her now and I want her forever. And I think she might want the same thing. God, I hope she does.

Eventually, Monty tires of the game and hops up onto the sofa beside me and then starts to lick the remnants of prawn cracker from my fingers. The sun is pouring through the window, and I experience the singularly soothing sensation of having my dog wriggle his way in between me and the back of the sofa and then we both let out a heartfelt sigh of relief. Life is pretty simple when you're a dog: all they want is enough food, some fun and exercise and someone to love. That's what I want too, now I come to think about it. That's not too much to ask is it? Monty lays his head on my chest, and we just lie there, basking in the sun, both of us dreaming about how sweet life is. And then it strikes me like a thunderbolt, just about the same time as Monty starts to snore – I don't need to be frightened of making a commitment, because I made one months ago, right at the time I pointed to Monty and told the guy at the pound that I was taking him. Once you love someone enough, there's nothing to be scared of any more – because you're in this together.

* * *

><p>"You're sure you've got everything?"<p>

Callen gives me a long-suffering stare. "Deeks- I'm looking after Monty for two days. If I need anything, I'll go buy it, okay?"

"Don't give him liver," Kensi advises, and then shudders at the memory.

"Don't give him raw liver," I amend.

"Who would give a dog raw liver?" Callen clocks the guilty expression on Kensi's face and shakes his head.

"How was I supposed to know? You see them throwing raw meat to lions all the time."

"Except Monty's a dog," he points out, with impeccable logic. "Don't worry Deeks, I'll look after him. How hard can it be after all? It's not like he's a baby."

Kensi smirks. "He's Deeks' baby."

I rise to that, mainly because a) Kensi is quite right (although I would never admit it) and b) I'm too busy wondering who the hell would ever let Callen look after a baby. "You've got my mobile and the vet's number, right?"

"Why don't you just give me the number of the canine beautician and be done with it?"

Actually, that's quite simple: because I bath Monty myself and then sneak home the clippers Callen keeps in his locker at work when his fur needs trimmed. Monty's fur that is, not Callen's. Callen has hair, after all. Just not very much of it. Anyhow, I don't reckon he'd be too happy about me using his clippers, which is why I've not mentioned it. Yet. I'm holding that fact in reserve. You never know when you might need a secret weapon.

"Very funny, Callen."

"Go on – get out of here, or it'll be dark before you reach Carmel." Callen makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "And Kensi – don't crash the car."

Kensi gives him a dark look. "Very funny, Callen."

"You and Deeks have been spending way too much time together. You're even beginning to talk alike."

We're very careful not to look at each other when Callen says that and suddenly we can't get out of my apartment quickly enough.

I've just got time to give Monty a pat farewell before Kensi drags me out of the door. And I guess this is when our weekend away really starts, with our bags in the trunk and us tearing down the freeway, leaving LA and our old lives behind, driving to Carmel where nobody knows us and we can finally be ourselves.

"I don't think he guessed – do you?" Kensi's got the hang of the manual transmission now and the Porsche is almost purring as she drives north.

"Callen? No way." Yeah, like I'm going to blow everything right now, just when everything is finally going well for us. If Callen doesn't realise something is going on, then he's not half the man I think he is.

"That's what I thought." I can tell from the tone of her voice that Kensi is no more sure of this that I am. "But what could be more natural than one partner helping out another?"

"Exactly." And whatever Callen is or is not thinking, it's too late now, is what I'm thinking. Anyway, I'm more concerned about how he's going to manage looking after Monty. And how Monty's going to manage with Callen looking after him. Monty is actually very sensitive, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd had an abusive owner in the past. Supposing Callen doesn't talk to him? Or won't let him listen to talk radio? Stability and routine are important for dogs, you know.

"There's not much we can do about it now, is there?" And funnily enough, Kensi doesn't sound too concerned about that.

"Absolutely nothing at all." So I guess we'd better just make the best of things. Okay – Carmel, here we come. With no excess baggage at all.

* * *

><p>By the time we arrive, LA seems a very long distance away. The sun is just starting to set, and the whole town is bathed in this golden light, and when Kensi gets out of the car, her hair seems full of the most amazing amber hues and her skin is the colour of ripe apricots. She looks good enough to eat.<p>

"This is the house? Really?" Kensi looks at me in amazement. "No kidding?" And then, without waiting for answer, she runs her hand lovingly over the wooden sign on the low gate. "_Cypress Breezes_ – could it be more perfect?"

Probably not, no. As romantic getaways go, this is so near perfect it's incredible. Last time I was here, I was in my mid-twenties, part of a group of guys who'd come to Carmel for a beer-fueled weekend. The house had barely registered, except as somewhere conveniently close to the beach and with enough room for us all to crash out. But now I'm seeing it through different eyes – and noticing all the little details, like the garden filled with sweet-smelling lavender and roses, the shingled roof and field-stone chimney.

"It's like something out of a fairytale – it really is." Kensi is just about skipping with joy. "I mean, I know they call them 'fairytale cottages', but I never thought it would look like this."

"It's kind of cute." It's the kind of house you can play make-believe in – and we're going to do just that. We're going to pretend we're just an ordinary couple, with no secrets at all. And with any luck, a little of the magic might just rub off on us both. So we're only borrowing it for a couple of nights? Who cares? For the next two days (and nights) this is our fantasy and nothing is going to spoil that.

"Cute? It's adorable. It's a dream come true."

If this was a movie, I'd tell Kensi that she's my dream come true, only I can't quite imagine me saying that, or Kensi reacting with a straight face. Which is a pity, because it sounds kind of romantic. But maybe I can make up for that. The key is tucked away on top of the door lintel, and once I've turned it in the lock, I swing Kensi up into my arms.

"Deeks – what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"You shouldn't do that." It's a purely token protest, because Kensi is laughing, and clasping her arms around my neck and kissing me so hard that I stumble over the doormat, just as two old ladies stroll by and give us indulgent smiles.

"Young love!" one of them says in a piercing whisper, and Kensi burys her face in my shoulder and starts shaking with laughter

"I'm fine. And it's too late now." For the first time in weeks I feel like a man again, rather than some invalid who has to be pampered and cosseted. I've got the woman I adore in my arms and the weekend has just begun.

"I surrender." Kensi lets her head drop back dramatically, like she's swooning and I manage to kick the door shut behind me. I don't want these two old dears to have twin heart attacks when I start on stage two of my master-plan.

* * *

><p>One hour later, and we're sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, drinking champagne and eating smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels, which was the best I could arrange at short notice. There's a roaring fire, which is just as well, because neither of us is wearing terribly much in the way of clothing.<p>

"You think of everything, don't you?" I don't think I've ever seen Kensi look quite so beautiful as she does right now, sitting here in the firelight, with her hair tumbling forward.

"I try my best." It didn't take much organizing – just a couple of phone calls. And a credit card, of course.

"It's perfect." Kensi takes another sip of champagne and sighs. "Everything is just perfect. The picnic, the cottage – and you."

Nobody's ever thought I was perfect before. Least of all myself. "I still can't work out what you're doing with me." Damn, the champagne has gone straight to my head.

"Really?" Kensi rolls onto her stomach, places her chin in her hand and looks at me seriously. "Want me to tell you?"

"Go on." The firelight is casting these flickering shadows onto her skin, which seems to be glowing. I look at her, trying to drink in everything about her, to imprint it onto my memory so that one day, when I am old and tired I can look back and think of this moment and remember when I was truly happy and life was golden and perfect. It's almost like this is too good to be true.

"Okay." She waves her legs in the air briefly before crossing her ankles and I'm seriously distracted by her butt. Kensi has the best butt in the world – round and high and firm and just inviting a man to… and you've got to concentrate Deeks. Just look at her face and concentrate on what she's saying. Do not let your gaze wander. Do not think about making love again. Well, not for at least ten minutes. You can do that – can't you?


	22. Chapter 22

"Well, where shall I begin?" Kensi muses.

I know where I'd like to begin: I'd like to begin by kissing Kensi's mouth, sweetened by the champagne. Only I kind of want to hear what she has to say. "Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"The beginning?" This slow smile creeps across her gorgeous, totally kissable mouth and it's only because the champagne has gone straight to my head that I don't leap on her there and then. "Okay. That would be when we first met, in the gym. When you were pretending to be Jason. Do you know what Sam and Callen said when I got back to the Mission and told them about you?"

"Nope." I don't actually care what they thought. I want to know what Kensi thought.

She smirks."That I was stuck on you. Or was it smitten?"

"Whatever." It's not really important what words were used, is it? But they noticed? She must have been kind of obvious.

"That's exactly what I said!"

"Really?" So it happened right from the start for her too? I can't quite believe it. And I can't quite believe it's taken us this long for us to get our act together. What the hell was wrong with us? We're supposed to be two intelligent people, so how come we couldn't figure all this out over a year ago?

"Really. So I kind of had this thing for you, I guess. And then you went away on that undercover operation after the Darva case. For months."

"Talk about bad timing." It had totally sucked, and not just the timing. Everything about that operation sucked, up to and including my LAPD handler, Jess Traynor, getting killed. But I spent a whole lot of time thinking about Kensi. You have no idea how many nights I would lie awake at night and think about Kensi wearing that little black dress and those incredible go-go boots at the nightclub. I'd go to sleep dreaming about her, and I'd wake up, cold, empty and alone.

"But you came back," Kensi says simply. "You came back to me. And I tried to fight it, I really did. Only you were always there. Even when I didn't want you to be. You were just there, no matter what, no matter how hard I tried to push you away."

"You could never push me away. I wouldn't go."

"I know." Her eyes are deep and mysterious, fathomless dark pools that I could drown in. "I remember when you told me you would be there for me, that you would find me – and you did. I think that's when I started to fall in love with you, when you got me out of the laser trap. I just stood there, praying that you would come and find me, and then you did, just like I knew you would. I think that's when it started."

The way I remember things, it had nearly ended there too. It was only by some miracle we got out of that explosion unscathed. Even if I had nearly peed my pants. I can remember lying there afterwards, sprawled on my back, hugging Kensi close and just feeling this huge surge of relief that she was alive. Nothing else mattered.

"And then when you were shot, that's when I knew."

"You knew?" Okay – but what did you know, Kensi?

"Oh yes. I knew I couldn't bear it if you died. You see, I'd seen one partner die – and I'd managed to keep on going. It was hard, but I managed it. But when you got shot, it was different – completely different. And that's when I knew."

"Right. You knew." And I'm still clueless.

"Oh yes." Kensi reaches out for my hand. "I sat there at the side of your bed, and I watched you sleeping and then you finally opened your eyes and that was it. I could see tomorrow in your eyes. And the day after that too. It was as simple as that. I knew I wanted you in my life and I wanted to be in yours."

"You never said." I'm trying to make sense of all this and wishing I hadn't drunk quite so much champagne. Or maybe I've not drunk enough?

"No, I didn't. Because then you had to go and nearly get yourself killed, didn't you?"

"I didn't much think about anything except you. And making sure you were okay. Nothing else mattered." Because I'd always known, even if I hadn't quite realised it. I'd known since the day we met that Kensi was the one person who could make this whole crazy world start to make sense. So I guess it must be love.

"I know," she says complacently. "I know, because I feel the same way."

Suddenly words aren't that important, but I say them anyway. "I love you, Kensi."

We're both kneeling now, arms around each other, noses touching and our faces so close that I can see my own reflection in her eyes. The warmth of the fire is as nothing compared to the heat we're generating and as I run my fingers down the long length of smooth skin that is her back, Kensi stretches sinuously under my touch.

"And I love you too. I think I've always loved you."

There is no need for further words as we simply let out bodies do the talking, slowly as if we are both speaking a foreign tongue, taking great care and relishing every single sensation as if for the first time. Nothing else matters except the moment, everything else simply ceases to be as my body reacts to each touch, every caress. Nobody can make me feel quite so alive as Kensi. Her lips leave a trail of hot, damp kisses down my neck and chest, and set my nerve endings singing with anticipation. And nobody feels quite so good as Kensi, as she reacts to my movements. I've never felt like this before, she's filling my senses and nothing will ever be the same again. And then everything ceases to be, except the two of us, lying in front of the fire, bathed in sweat and trying to work out if we're still alive.

"I guess I'm stuck with you then." Kensi doesn't sound too upset about it.

"Guess you are. So if you're stuck, then I'm smitten?"

"Whatever." She's lying on top of me again, staring down at me, with her hair tumbling around us both.

"Is that a promise?" I shouldn't be ready again quite so soon, should I? It seems that somebody forgot to tell my body that. Excellent.

"Definitely."

Like I said, nobody has ever made me feel quite so alive as Kensi. I'm definitely on the mend. "That's one reason I love you."

Kensi smiles at me. "I just love you. Period."

She's right. We don't need any explanations or justifications – we just need each other. All the rest will fall into place and what doesn't, we can make up as we go along. Right now I've got the whole world at my fingertips – quite literally, as it turns out.

* * *

><p>I'd envisaged a weekend full of bright skies and sunshine, so it came as no surprise to see a dull looming sky outside the bedroom window next morning.<p>

"Don't tell me – it's raining?" Kensi's voice is suitably doom-laden.

"Not raining – just a sea fog coming rolling in." The sheets smell of lavender, and the whole house is filled with the aroma of wood smoke and sea air. We've got the whole weekend to look forward to, so I wouldn't exactly care if it was raining frogs right now, because Kensi loves me.

"You want to go out, don't you?" She sits up and hugs her knees, staring at me with those incredible eyes. I still can't quite believe this is happening.

"Kind of," I admit. "We could go for a walk along the beach, and then go into town for breakfast afterwards?"

"Or we could go for a walk along the beach, come back here and then go into town for brunch?"

"That's another reason I love you: for your mind." I know exactly what she's thinking we can do when we come back, mainly because that's what I'm thinking too.

"I still just love you because. Because you are you, and because you make me so happy." She kisses me. "You just make me so happy I could shout it out to the whole world."

And that's what she does when we're down on the beach, walking along barefoot, hand in hand and watching as the thin mist rolls in towards us, just barely skimming the tops of the waves, a pale, translucent veil, silvery grey and nebulous, shimmering in the early light of the morning. Already the sun is starting to burn the haze away, although there is still a chill in the air, and a brisk wind that's whipping Kensi's hair into disarray. No matter: we've got thick sweaters on and the wind is turning her cheeks pink, so that she looks full of life and expectation. Kensi runs to the edge of the water, where the hard packed sand is rippled by the tide, and cold water of the Pacific rushes in a bubbling foam over her toes.

"I love you!" she cries, throwing her arms up in the air just to emphasise this and kicks at the water, sending a stream of droplets flying up into the air. Then she runs back to me and I pick her up and swing her around and around in joy. We're laughing and kissing and no morning has ever been more perfect. A dog comes running down the beach towards us, barking with excitement and then starts dancing around on its hind legs and in an instant I'm laughing so hard I collapse down on the sand, with Kensi on top of me.

"I'm so sorry!" It's an older woman, who's grabbed her dog by the collar and is pulling him away. "He gets terribly excited."

"No problem. I get that way myself." There's sand in my hair and the dog's licking my face and I just don't care.

Kensi pokes me in the ribs, which just makes me double up laughing again. I'd forgotten how good being in love makes you feel. Luckily, she reminds me again, when we're back in the cottage, sharing the old-fashioned roll-top bath.

"So you're ready to tell the whole world?" Or just the unsuspecting dog walkers of Carmel? If the worst comes to the worst, maybe I could put in for a transfer to the Carmel police force? Or I could just become a dog walker. There's lots of options – but not being with Kensi isn't one of them.

She leans back against me. "I trust you. And I believe in us. I don't know why I was so scared… well, I do, kind of. But I know I'm safe with you."

"Do you want to talk about it?" That was why we came down here, after all, to be able to talk about things and work out where we're going.

"Maybe later. Right now I've got other things on my mind."

"How strange. So do I." See, that is why we are so great together: we think alike. These baths are roomier than you might think. And really quite deep, so that we didn't flood the bathroom too much – nothing that we couldn't mop up. Once we noticed, that is. But then we were kind of preoccupied. Put it this way, by the time we finally made it into Carmel, it was lunchtime and I had no doubt that I was physically as fit as I'd ever been.


	23. Chapter 23

Come midday and we're sitting in a small restaurant, with brightly coloured Mexican tiles on the white-painted walls, slowly working our way through a platter of incredible food. The place is busy, but not over-crowded, and the quiet buzz of conversation fills the air. This is the ideal way to spend a relaxing Saturday – good food, great company and a pretty decent bottle of the first time in a long, long time, I feel like a normal person once again – only better. Now I'm one half of a couple, and I realise that makes me feel whole, complete in a way that I'd never felt before. We could be in a different world, rather than just a few miles drive away from LA. In Carmel we can just be ourselves and nobody cares. We're just another couple – even if Kensi is the most beautiful woman in town. Most of all, we don't have to be on guard the whole time, always looking over our shoulders, just in case we might be spotted.

"So you're happy?" I ask.

Kensi nods, her eyes bright and sparkling. "Oh yes."

"Happy enough to share it with the world?"

"Happy enough to share it with the rest of OSP, you mean?" she asks shrewdly. "Yes, I think I am." She picks up her wineglass and runs her finger around the rim. "I owe you an explanation, don't I?"

"You don't owe me anything. But I'd like to know – if you want to talk about it." And some people say I can't be tactful? I can be the soul of discretion, if I have to be.

"I need to talk about it. I should have talked about it a long time ago, only I couldn't. There was always something holding me back. And then it seemed like too much had passed between us, and it was just too difficult. But for a long time, I was just too frightened to let myself love again. Love was a threat, you see. Love tore my parents apart."

Her eyes are distant, as if she is looking back across the years. "That's what I thought. Only it turns out that I was wrong. I spent all these years loathing my mother, believing she'd fallen in love with another man and ruined my father's life, only to find out it was all a lie. Nothing's really so black and white, is it? I learnt that my mother was trying to protect me – her only child. And how did I repay that love? By running straight back to my father and then refusing to have anything more to do with her." She shakes her head in disbelief.

"You never stopped loving her, did you?" I can tell from the way she speaks, from the anger that Kensi is driving in on herself, so I reach out across the table and take hold of her free hand. "You never stopped loving her and she never stopped loving you."

"But I hurt her so much!" Kensi cries fiercely. "And when I went to her house, she had all these photos of me – right from when I was a baby. Only they stopped after a certain date, so that I'm forever this little girl. When she thinks of me, I bet she sees this hateful brat who is screaming at her: _I hate you, I don't love you. I don't want you – I want my daddy._ And now I know why she took me away – because she was trying to protect me. Because she loved me. How could I have said these things?"

"Because you were only a little girl – a frightened, angry little girl who was hurting so much. And she knew that." Kensi doesn't know how lucky she is to have had two parents who loved her so much, who both wanted to protect her. Except that sometimes love hurts, you see. I don't think there was a single member of the Blye family who emerged unscathed. With Kensi, I always knew not to push too hard, because I could tell that the hurt was so deep, so integral that she could never speak about it. Until now, that is.

"And then when I found out that she was alive, and that she was in danger, I suddenly realised that I didn't hate her after all. And that I needed her in my life. So I asked the one person I could trust to make sure she was okay. You."

"Me," I agree. At the time, I hadn't known what to think, except that Kensi needed me and that I wasn't going to let her down. But right enough – she trusted me to make sure her mother was alright. She put her mother's life in my hands. That makes me feel kind of humble.

"And you just did what I needed you to do. No questions asked."

I think back to how Kensi was that day: wound up so tight that just one tiny bit of additional pressure would make her snap. So brittle and so vulnerable, so tense - it was a side of Kensi I'd never seen before. Sure, there was a whole big part of me that wanted to protect her, to take her into my arms and hold her, tell her that everything would be okay – but that would have been counterproductive. That wasn't what Kensi needed right then. She needed to know her mother would be safe and she'd entrusted me with that responsibility. And then she needed to be able to go and do what she needed to do with no outside distractions.

"Can I ask a question now?" It's been bugging me for ages, because Kensi has never spoken about her mother since that one brief conversation.

"Why not?" She takes a large swallow of wine, perhaps for some Dutch courage.

"How are things between you now? I mean, I talked to your mom: she seemed like a nice lady."

"She liked you too. She told me I'd be a fool to let you get away."

"Really?"

"Really. My mom's a pretty smart lady. And she's a nice lady too. She thought you were sweet. And hot."

"I liked her too." I might even send her some flowers when we get back to LA.

"But there's a lot of time between us. We've got a lot of things to catch up on. And it's never going to be the same again – not like the way it was." There's a lot of resigned sadness in Kensi's voice. "I'm not her little girl any more, you see."

"I'm guessing you'll always be her little girl, sweetheart."

"Do you think so?" There's a catch in her voice when she says that, and she grips onto my hand so tightly I can almost feel the bones grind against one another.

"I know so." I'd seen the love shine out of her eyes, you see, when I mentioned Kensi.

"Anyway, I've been to see my mom a few times, and we're getting there. But it's strange – almost like we're two strangers, with only the past in common. And I spent so long trying to find my dad's killer, that 'd almost forgotten about Mom. And then once it was all over, I felt sort of empty. My weekends were my own again, but I didn't know what to say to my mother. And then, when you got shot, and there was that whole time we thought we might lose you." She shudders at the memory. "And that just made everything a whole lot worse. There was a lot of time to think for a couple of days, just sitting and hoping you'd wake up – and that was when I realised that all along I thought I'd been looking for revenge, only I hadn't. That wasn't the point at all."

"You needed justice, didn't you? For your father. Not revenge."

"How did you know that?" Her eyes are wide with surprise

Well, that's kind of easy. You see, that's why I went into law school in the first place, because I'd seen how the system can fail people, and I thought that was the way I could make a difference. And that was the reason I joined the police, because I discovered that I couldn't make enough of a difference with the law – the damage is already been done by the time lawyers got involved. And I wanted to try to stop the pain and the hurt. But this isn't about me: it's about Kensi. She's had so many years of hurt that she's bottled up inside herself and now she's finally letting go. This isn't the time for my story. I'm not sure that there will ever be the right time to tell my story.

"Because I love you? And because I know you, Kensi." Sometimes I think I know her better than I know myself. "Maybe we can try to make sense of all this together?"

"Maybe we can. Maybe we can put the past behind us and just concentrate on the present - and even the future?"

Finally, she's able to let go and that means we can go forward. "Baby girl – we can do anything." I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life. And the only thing that feels better than this is when you catch a wave at just exactly the right moment and start soaring upwards, like you're never going to stop.

"There's just one thing. And it's a big thing. I'm going to have to ask a big favour of you." She's chewing her bottom lip, which is always a bad sign with Kensi. Of course, it gets to me right away.

"Anything." Do I sound desperate? Actually, I don't care if I do or not. Whatever it takes, that's what I'll do. No questions asked.

"Great. In that case, you can tell them. Back at the Mission, I mean. When I'm nowhere around." And she's grinning now, grinning from ear to ear.

"You got me there." And do you know what? I don't care. If that means facing down Sam, and Callen and Hetty – plus Eric and Nell, then that's fine. Actually, I'm kind of looking forward to it. What – you think I don't know they all talk about us behind our backs? That they talk about 'Densi', for crying out loud, like we're no longer separate entities. Nobody is going to be surprised. Except possibly Kensi, who'll be surprised at the lack of surprise, if that makes sense.

"Oh, I've got you, Deeks. I've got you and I'm never letting you go."

Do you know what? That sounds just fine with me. You see, when it comes right down to it, I was smitten with her, but Kensi was stuck on me.

* * *

><p>We spend the afternoon walking around the town, just like normal people do. Normal people who don't go around carrying guns and generally saving the world on what seems like a daily basis. It feels so amazing to be strolling along and holding Kensi's hand. Everywhere we go, there are loads of dogs and I feel kind of sad that Monty's not here.<p>

"Next time, we'll bring Monty." Kensi squeezes my hand. "He'll love it."

"Next time? You mean we're coming back?"

"Definitely. We've got to do more things like this, don't you think?"

Making time to be together? What is there to argue about that? "I think."

We're walking past this shop, selling all sorts of toys for big boys with large bank balances. You know the sort of thing I'm talking about: paragliding supplies, bungee ropes, kite surfing paraphenalia – equipment for people who love the rush of adrenalin in the morning. Something for the man who lives dangerously. And of course I'm standing there, with my tongue practically hanging out.

"No. I'm not ready for that sort of thing yet. And neither are you."

Kensi grabs hold of my belt and tugs, but I'm not moving. Not until I'm good and ready. Or she snogs me. It's good to be flexible, I've found.

I wonder if anyone ever told Kensi that when she gets all masterful she is almost impossible to resist? "I will be – soon." And I give her a meaningful look. She's certainly had no complaints about my performance so far, has she?

"Soon is not the same as now." She puts her hand under my chin and turns my head so that I've got no alternative but to look at her. "I'm not joking, Deeks. You've got to give yourself some time."

See, I can cope with her being masterful, mainly because it turns me on, but it is definitely underhand of her to start being reasonable. That's below the belt. "How about you give me some time instead?"

"That could be arranged. If you're good. Or we could go inside and have a look around?"

Okay, now I am officially confused. And I didn't even have that much to drink at lunchtime. "We could?" How come women can change their minds so quickly? Do they just do to keep us on our toes, wondering what's going to happen next? The more I think about that, the more it makes sense.

"Oh yes. You never know what we might find."

My mind is officially going into over drive. One thing about life with Kensi? It's never dull. Which is good. No, actually it's great. I wouldn't change one single thing.


	24. Chapter 24

"A kite? Really?"

Kensi gives me one of her looks. The one that says 'shut up, if you know what's good for you'. I know what's good for me, so I shut up. "Yes – a kite. And not just any kite – a stunt kite." She sounds extraordinarily pleased with herself, and with the kite she's holding.

"A kite's pretty much a kite – isn't it?" That earns me a particularly withering look of pity. "Except when it's a stunt kite. Obviously." Kites are for little kids – aren't they?

"Obviously"

There's something about the look in her eyes that makes me start to wonder – it's a strange mixture: part reminiscence, part excitement. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Oh yes." She starts to smile, and it's actually rather scary. "And you haven't, have you?"

"Nope." Well, there's no sense in bluffing when what I know about kites could be written on the back of a credit card. On the strip where you sign your name.

"I'm going to have to teach you then."

There is a certain amount of relish in Kensi's voice. She's quite competitive, you see. No – that's a lie. Kensi is the most competitive person I have ever met in my whole life. It actually used to bug me quite a bit, the way she always had to be better at everything than I was. Sometimes it was like the world would end if Kensi wasn't better at shooting, at driving, heck - better at having completed the most obscure NCIS-approved courses (like advanced disemboweling or how to defuse a nuclear bomb with your teeth) with much higher marks than I could ever hope to achieve. After a while, I just stopped even trying to compete, reasoning that she needed to be the best at things and that I just needed a quiet life. I like to save my energy for the really important things in life, after all.

"On one condition." Come on, I'm not that easy.

"And that condition is?" Clearly Kensi doesn't want to buy a pig in a poke. But that's okay: I'm prepared for that. I was a Boy Scout, after all. Just not a very good one – I got distracted easily.

"I'm not telling. Not until you agree." That's another thing about Kensi: her curiousity knows no bounds. Now, if you add that to her competitive streak, ayou just know that there is just no way she's going to turn down my challenge.

"That's not fair." I knew it!

"That's tough."

She waits, and I start counting in my head. I actually get right up to fifteen, which is pretty impressive for Kensi. Most days she's lucky if I get to seven.

"Alright. You win. What's the condition?"

"You come surfing with me. As in you actually come in the water and get up on a board – not just sit on the beach."

"Do I have to wear a wetsuit?"

Of course you do, sweetheart, because that is one of my all-time favourite fantasies – Kensi in a wetsuit that clings to every inch of her body. "You can freeze your ass off if you want to, but I'm definitely wearing mine."

I wasn't prepared for the smile that creeps across her face at that statement. There's only one word to describe that smile: lascivious. It kind of takes me by surprise. "What did I say?"

"Enough." She's practically licking her lips, and once again I'm acutely aware that Kensi has me at a considerable disadvantage. "Do you have any idea how many times I've dreamt about you in a wetsuit?"

"Really?" It must be more common than I thought, this particular fantasy. And unisex too. That's interesting.

"Oh yes." She moves closer, so that her mouth is up against my ear and the whispering sensation of her breath sends a shiver right down my spine. And then it does something strange and goes straight to my groin. Don't ask me about that, because I'm barely holding it together as it is. "And that's not all I dream about."

"Really?" I say weakly. It's like my mind is stuck in this groove, because I'm conscious that I keep repeating myself. Mind you, I'm using every ounce of my self-control not to just grab Kensi and kiss her until her knees buckle. She knows exactly what she's going to me. In the middle of a crowded shop, full of families. As in little kids – little, innocent children. And what I have in mind is not at all innocent. It's a good thing that having x-rated thoughts is not illegal. "It's not?"

"Oh no. You see, I have this dream where you come running out of the ocean, with the sun behind you, and you're holding your board under one arm, and you shake your head, so that I can see your hair fly out, in this shower of droplets that catch the rays of the sun."

Wow. This is pretty vivid and incredibly detailed. My own personal dreams are rather more prosaic, I've got to admit. Maybe I should get some more practice in? "Go on." I know we shouldn't be doing this, not here and not now – but I don't care. I just want Kensi to keep whispering in my ear, telling me her private fantasies in the middle of this busy shop, because I reckon that combination is pretty potent stuff.

"Well, like I said, you come running out of the water, and you stick your board in the sand, and then you come walking up the beach towards me."

"You're there?" My voice sounds kind of distant and far away. Is it just me, or is that surfboard in the sand kind of an obvious metaphor?

"Of course I am."

"I just wanted to check." Well, some people have fantasies in the third person. Kind of like replaying a movie in their heads. That's all I'm saying. Except I'm not saying it, of course. Well not out loud and not right here, anyway. Later on, in private is a different matter.

"So, you come up to me, and you kneel down in the sand beside me…"

"What are you wearing?" I ask, out of a purely academic interest.

Kensi does a double take. "What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything," I assure here. "I'm just trying to get the whole picture here."

"Okay." She thinks for a second. "I'm wearing a two piece, kind of low-cut, in cherry-red, with gold buckles."

Incredible. Almost perfect. Perfect would be nothing at all, but you can't have everything, can you? But a red bikini works for me. On Kensi, of course. I'm more of a bright blue myself, as far as swim wear goes. Only obviously not a bikini. "Go on."

"So I'm sitting there and you're kneeling beside me, and you ask me if I can help you."

Do you know something? This is just about killing me. I definitely need help. "So what do you say?"

"Oh, I smile sweetly at you, and say 'sure'. And that's when you ask me if I can unzip your wetsuit."

"I do?" Now is clearly not the time to tell Kensi about the really long strap on wetsuit zippers, specially designed so that you get yourself in and out of it without assistance. That's clearly not relevant right now, and besides which, I prefer her version. She can pull my zipper any day.

"You do," she says sweetly.

"And do you?"

"What do you think?"

I think is that we'd better get out of here before the window start to steam up, that's what I think. "I'm guessing you do? Just because you're a really helpful person?"

"That's true. And also because I want to see if you look as good out of that suit as you do in it."

"Keep talking."

"So I pull down the zip, quite slowly. And I see what broad shoulders you have. Like you work out a lot. And what a good tan you have – just like molten toffee. Or even butterscotch sauce. As I pull the zip down lower, I notice how you've got really slim hips and I let my hands rest on them for just a second. And that's when I see where your tan line stops…"

That's when I clap my hand over her mouth. "And that's where I stop you. How about we get out of here and we can continue this conversation somewhere more private?" I turn around so that we're looking at one another.

"No way. I want this kite." Kensi clasps it to her chest protectively. "I tell you what – after we've flown the kite, we could go back to the cottage and I could show you what happens next?"

That's a great theory, only I might have just died of frustration before then. "I'm not going to change your mind, am I?"

"No way."

"Fair enough. But I win too – one day I'm going to teach you to surf."

"In your dreams, Deeks."

"And in yours too, Kensi." And that, I think, is what they call touché. Isn't it? Of course, I didn't reckon on having to pay for the kite, so maybe she won both rounds? Who cares? Not me, that's for sure.

* * *

><p>So that's how we end up, with Kensi standing on the beach, and me running along like a complete idiot, holding the kite up above my head.<p>

"Now! Now, Marty."

I throw the kite up into the air and then watch in amazement as it hovers unsteadily for a brief moment before starting to rise up majestically into the air, carried high by the thermals. As I'm jogging back towards Kensi, she starts doing complicated things with the lines, so that the kite dances around, and then moves smoothly through a series of spirals and loops. It's seriously impressive.

"You never told me you could do that."

"I never told you a lot of things." Her eyes are fixed on the kite, soaring above us, crimson and black against a cerulean sky. "Which I should have done. You see, Dad and I had kites. We used to fly them together. He taught me everything I know."

"You're good. I mean, you're really good. I couldn't begin to do that sort of thing."

The kite is now doing a nose dive, but just when it looks like it's going to crash into the ground, Kensi sends it flying back up again with a flick of her wrists.

"Yes, you could. If I showed you. And if you wanted to."

_**10. Study.**__  
>Bone up on topics the other likes - read about impressionism, listen to Blink 182, do a web search on Brad Pitt. You will have more to talk about (which we already know is always good) and you may discover that you really like football! <em>

"I'd like that a lot." And I really mean that.

So we stay on the beach for hours, just fooling around with the kite (and each other). Doing all these stunts is not nearly as easy as Kensi makes them look – but it's fun. It's possibly the most fun you can have fully-clothed on a public beach.


	25. Chapter 25

It's a fabulous day – bright skies, a mild wind and because it's still early in the year, there's not too many people on the beach –just a few local people, out walking their dogs. When we eventually tire of flying the kite, we just start walking along the sand, talking about everything and nothing. What with one thing and another, we're still on the beach when dusk starts to fall and the long perfect day starts to fold in upon itself.

"I always love this time of day." Kensi has a mystic look in her eyes as she gazes out westwards to where the sun is just starting to touch the very edge of the water. "You feel as if anything could happen."

"Anything can happen." I'm standing behind her, my arms wrapped around her waist and resting my head on her shoulder. It's hard to remember a time when I felt more relaxed or more certain that the world is full of wonderful surprises just waiting to be discovered.

"I believe you." She leans back against me, moving her head so that our cheeks are touching. "For so long I was scared to let myself get involved again. I had to stay focused on finding the men who killed my dad – that was the most important thing in my life. So I pushed away the thought of ever finding love for myself. But that's over now."

All the confusing signals she gave out make sense know that I know about Kensi's childhood and her obsessive quest to find out the truth about the father's death. "I understand. I know how much you loved him."

"How much I still love him," she corrects "I'll always love him. Come what may – no matter what. You don't just stop loving because the person is gone. But now I've got you, and I feel like I'm complete again. I had all this love inside me, and there was nowhere for it to go – until now."

She could be talking about me. Perhaps she is? Kensi is a wise woman, and it can't have escaped her notice that I don't exactly talk about my family. In the early days, when we'd just started working together, I used to spin a few a tales, tell a few funny stories, but after I was shot in the convenience store and the truth came out, I stopped that. It seemed safest, somehow. And she never called me on that, not once. Kensi never asked me why I shot my father – and I realise she's just been waiting for me to be ready to talk about it. She's been incredibly patient.

I look up and see that the sky is shot through with a myriad of colours, vast streaks of gold, amber, vermillion and purple are staining the heavens and below them the sea is wine-dark and mysterious. The beach is deserted now, except for us and we could be the only two people in the world. Perhaps this is my confessional? I know I can trust her, but it's just that I've hidden all this for so long that it's difficult to know where to begin.

"That's the funny thing about love, isn't it? You can't just stop loving someone – not even when you think you might hate them. I guess that was always my problem – I loved not wisely, but too well." I'm glad we're both standing staring out at the sunset, because I don't think I could talk about this if I had to look at Kensi. My life would have been a lot easier if I just could have brushed away all the hurt and rejection – but the fact remains that I loved and I desperately wanted to be loved in return. That's the penalty of being human – we all need to give and receive love.

"No." She puts her hands on top of mine and then she kisses my cheek. "Your problem is that your parents abused you, and there was no one to help."

I don't say anything. What is there to say? It's the truth, after all. The truth that I've carefully concealed for just about all of my life. They trained me well, you see. Scream quietly, so the neighbours don't hear… If you tell, you will be taken away. It's our fault, Marty. All the lies, all the conditioning, all the guilt they laid upon me from when I was too young to know any better.

"I know what they did to you." Her voice is hard and tight. "When you were in hospital? They did a full body scan. And all those old injuries showed up. All the broken bones going back to when you were just a little boy." Her voice trembles, and then it breaks completely. "Oh, Marty."

I can't cope with this if she's going to cry. Because then I'll cry too. And I don't cry. I haven't cried for years. Crying just made it worse, you see. So I try to make a joke. "They told people I was clumsy. Which I was, I guess. Always walking into a fist, that was me." I've used jokes for years, as a way of deflecting attention. But this time it doesn't work, in fact it falls completely flat,

Oh God, this is so hard. I've never spoken about this before, not to anyone. Ray knew, of course, and I guess most people did, now I come to think about it, but it wasn't anything anybody actually talked about. What was there to say? Bruises and cuts and broken bones are easy enough to explain away when the kid in question is always rushing around headlong and is into just about every sport there is. Going to football practice and little league and spending hours on my skateboard was one way of making sure I wasn't around the house too much – and it meant I was out of reach. They never hit me in public, you see. Just behind closed doors. Most people only see what they want to see, after all, and on paper my family looked pretty good: two successful parents and a sports-mad kid who was kind of accident-prone. But after my father broke my jaw, Ray called a halt to things. He came round after school one day and gave me that gun. 'Just in case,' he said, giving me a look that was loaded with meaning. Looking back, I guess he saved my life. 'Always shoot first,' he told me. So I did – and that's probably why I'm alive right now, and standing here on this beach with Kensi watching an incredibly beautiful sunset. You see, people think that it's only the junkies, or the folks that live in trailer parks that beat up their kids. It doesn't happen in nice middle-class neighbourhoods. Only it happens. It happens all the time, but people like to pretend it doesn't – it's easier that way. We moved around a lot, when I was kid, which didn't help. Just when people were starting to wonder if maybe things weren't quite as they appeared, my dad would get another promotion, and we'd move to a bigger house, in a new area, with a new school. The system wasn't designed to catch kids like me before we fell through the holes. My parents were very convincing, when they had to be. Sometimes they even managed to convince me that they really loved me, and it was all my fault. And I didn't know any better, so I believed them. It's taken me a long time to think that anyone would actually love me. It's taken Kensi to finally turn my life around and make me whole again.

"I wish things had been different for you," Kensi whispers, and a tear runs slowly down her cheek. "I wish you hadn't gone through all that, alone."

"Me too." There's a huge lump in my throat. "Most of all, I just wish I hadn't loved them. You know, right up to the night when Hetty told me my dad was dead I still used to think that maybe he'd get in touch, that we could rebuild our relationship. Only he'd been dead since I was 17."

Try as I might to repress them, all the memories come flooding back: of that time, and of Hetty walking out of the hospital room leaving me alone. I was still groggy from the anaesthetic, and doped up to the eyeballs on painkillers, plus I was feeling particularly crappy, so I just lay there and stared at the file she'd left, trying desperately to come to terms with the news that my father had been dead for over ten years. We were never going to have a proper father/son relationship, I know that, only I'd always kind of hoped we might have managed to build something. But that night all hope was officially dead. I was too numb to even cry, but even so, that has to rank as one of the worst nights of my life, and no mistake.

"You never stopped loving him, did you?" Kensi turns around and takes me in her arms and I just bury my head in the crook of her neck.

"No." I can't say anything more, because my throat feels like it's about to close up. And I know he didn't deserve it, but it would have been good to be able to tell him that, just once. So that he knew he was loved. Only that is never going to happen. It shouldn't affect me like this, I know he's not worth it – but since when did love ever listen to logic? And that's when I know I'm going to break down completely. Squeezing my eyes tight shut doesn't help a whole lot, because I can't hold back the tears any longer. All the years of hurt – both mental and physical - that I've bottled up for so many years finally come bursting forth and there's not a damn thing I can do to stop it. I can't hold back the pain any longer, but that's alright. It's time to let it all come out. I'm with Kensi and I'm safe. There's no need to pretend any more. There's over thirty years of pain locked up inside me, and it's all coming out now, as the sun falls out of the sky and drowns itself in the endless ocean.

"That's okay. Everything's okay. Just let it all out. You're safe. I'm here."

Kensi is stroking my hair and I finally know what it is to trust somebody so completely that you have no secrets from them: I can rip open me soul apart and reveal all the darkness that sometimes threatens to overwhelm me – and I can do this in the knowledge that she will not judge; rather that she will accept this and she will still love me and not judge me, or think that I am any less of a man for daring to love and to be hurt. I've been looking for that love all of my life and I've finally found it. I can't remember crying in front of a woman before, far less in her arms, but I just need her so much. Who would have thought there could be so much solace in an embrace? So I weep and Kensi lets me. She gives me the incredible gift of letting me finally release the pain and by doing so, it finally starts to leave.

* * *

><p>Afterwards, we sit for a long time on the beach, not really talking, just listening to the sound of the waves breaking on the shore, and watching the sun sink slowly down into the ocean, a vibrant crimson ball of flame that gradually disappears into darkness. And I feel peace seem to seep into every fibre of my being. Peace and utter contentment, like I've finally found what I've been searching for all of my life.<p>

"Thank you. For understanding. And I'm sorry for laying all this on you."

The moon is starting to rise, and it's a pale sliver glimmering among the stars. It's noticeably colder and we're leaning into one another.

"Don't ever apologise for loving people," Kensi says. "You've got such a big heart and so much love to give. That's one of the things I love about you. But mostly, I just love you because you're you."

It's hard to see her face through the darkness, but sometimes you don't need to look, you just have to reach out and know that she will be there. Her lips are slightly cold and they taste like the sea, but her mouth is warm and welcoming. Kissing her sends a flame of desire flickering through my body, banishing the chill of the evening.

"We should go back."

We should return to the cottage that looks like it has come straight out of a fairytale, so that it can weave its spell around us again. I want to spend the rest of the evening with my arms around Kensi, I want her face to be the last thing I see before I go to sleep with her in my arms and when I wake up in a warm, tangled muddle of limbs, I want to know that when I open my eyes her face will be the first thing I see. I just want her: now and forever.

"Let's go home," Kensi agrees, so we walk slowly back up the beach to where the car is parked underneath the trees and we leave the ocean to its secrets as the moon and the stars pour down their light. The only sounds that can be heard are the soft crunch of sand underfoot, the waves lapping gently as the tide ebbs and flows, and the faint rustle of leaves. If this isn't paradise, it's the next best thing.

* * *

><p><em>So, finally they trust each other. No more secrets, no more barriers... two wounded people finally allowed to heal. Slushy plot bunny is sitting beside me, eating chocolate and humming happily.<em>


	26. Chapter 26

And actually, it's only the beginning of a downright amazing night. Have you ever sat beneath the stars with the woman you're crazy about, both of you cradled by the warm, bubbling waters of a hot tub? No? Then go right out and remedy the situation. Immediately. You will thank me, I can promise you that. Everyone should make love in a hot tub at least once in their lives. Believe me, it's worth while. In fact, I am seriously considering looking for a ground floor apartment when we get back to LA, just so I can invest in a hot tub. Maybe I could get it tax deductible, on account of my leg injury? It has to be worth a shot (pun intended).

The garden is well-screened from the neighbouring properties, and it feels incredibly private, but there's still that slight frisson of danger that someone might hear us and then be tempted to check and see what's going on. However, knowing that just works to heighten the excitement. I know Kensi so intimately now that I can tell exactly when she's about to hit her orgasm, and I also know just how very vocal she can be, so I make sure to be kissing her so that I can take her screams into my mouth - and the sensation of that just about blows me away. And afterwards, we just lie back and stare up at the sky as the steam gently rises up into the cool night air. The stars seem a lot brighter here in Carmel, far away from the city lights of LA.

"I think I could be happy here," Kensi says dreamily.

"I already am happy."

"You know what I mean. When I was growing up, moving around all the military bases, I always dreamt of living in LA – the big city, you know?"

"Kind of." I've never actually lived that far from LA in my whole life, so it didn't have that whole allure of forbidden fruit for me. What LA represented was a chance to get away, to start afresh and get lost amidst the crowds in a place where nobody had ever heard of Gordon John Brandel or his unfortunate little accident that landed him in jail.

"But now LA's kind of losing its attraction for me. It's so big and impersonal. I could see us living somewhere like this."

"After we win the lottery, you mean?" Has she any idea how much these houses sell for? More than both of us will ever earn in our lifetimes, that's for sure. And then it hits me: the import of what Kensi has just said. She said she could see us living somewhere like this. As in the two of us. Like we're actually a couple, making plans for the future – together.

"LA's got some quieter neighbourhoods we could look at," I say casually, trying not to make too big a deal out of this. "Places where there's more of a community feeling."

"Which just happen to be beside the ocean, I bet." Kensi gives a deep, rumbling chuckle. "I know you so well, Marty Deeks."

"And yet you still love me." She hasn't told me that for at least half an hour, you see.

"I still love you," she confirms. "And it wouldn't be too much of a hardship to live by the ocean. I guess I could cope with that."

"Just wait till we go surfing at sun up."

"Can I take a rain check on that?"

She can have anything she wants. Absolutely anything at all. "We are serious about this, aren't we? Moving in together, I mean?" I'm asking because I have to be sure, mainly because I still can't believe that everything is going so well.

"I've never been more serious about anything in my life," Kensi says solemnly. "Well, with the possible exception of those days spent sitting beside you in the hospital and promising you just about anything if you woke up and came back to me."

One of these days I am going to find out exactly what she promised. With any luck, at least 10% will be triple X-rated and then I'm going to make sure Kensi keeps her word to me. So surfing at sun-up might just have to wait a while

"We could start looking next week, if you like?" I suggest. "Just to get some ideas. We'd want somewhere close to the ocean, easy travelling to the Mission, ground floor with a garden…" Already the list of 'must haves' is getting quite long.

"And somewhere that takes dogs," Kensi adds. "Because that's non-negotiable."

Do you know something? That actually makes me feel quite emotional. But then it's late and it's been a long day.

"How about we talk about this some more tomorrow?"

We've got tomorrow, and that day after that and a whole string of days, weeks, months and years stretching out in front of us. In fact, we've got the rest of our lives ahead of us and the future has ever looked quite so inviting. Almost as inviting as that bed upstairs, in fact… but not quite.

What with one thing and another (mostly the other) it's well past midnight before I go to sleep, and quite frankly, I'm exhausted. It's been a great day, but now I'm conscious that I'm nowhere near back up to anything like full fitness. Still, it's not like we've got to get up early tomorrow – we can spend most of the day right here in bed, if that's what we want to do, and then drive back to LA in the late afternoon. Actually, that sounds very tempting indeed. If I just look suitably pathetic in the morning, I'm sure I can persuade Kensi that bed is the best place for me. And her too, obviously.

* * *

><p>But as it turns out, it's not me who is looking pathetic - it's Kensi. I know something is wrong before I even open my eyes, because when I reach out, she's not there. In fact, there is nothing but cold, empty bed.<p>

"Kensi?" I sit up in a total panic, wondering if this has all been some fantastic dream, and my head gives a warning twinge.

"Over here." She's perched on the window seat, with her knees drawn up to her chest, a quilt draped around her shoulders and looking wan and peaky.

"Are you alright?" I'm scrambling out of bed and just about falling over my feet in my headlong rush to get over to her. I've never seen Kensi look quite so fragile, not even that time when she got whacked in the jaw and could barely talk, let alone eat.

"I'm fine. Really."

"You're not fine." Clearly, she is not fine. Now I'm sitting beside her, I can see the fine lines of pain on her forehead, and notice that her skin has a slightly green tinge to it.

"Don't fuss. I've taken some painkillers and I'm just waiting for them kick in."

"Painkillers?" All these visions start whirling around in my head and I can't help seeing how Kensi's got one hand pressed protectively against her stomach. "Is it appendicitis? We should get you to the hospital."

My blind panic seems to amuse her, because a smile creeps across her face. "It's not appendicitis. Honestly."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's period pains. No big deal. Just some cramps. It happens."

"Oh." It looks like a big deal to me. We've worked together for well over a year now, and there must have been other times when Kensi has felt equally ill, except either I never noticed or she was managing to hide it. I'm guessing the latter, because Kensi has this whole kind of Marine vibe about her a lot of the time. You know: 'never show any weakness'. Which is nonsense. I'm not happy shes in pain, but I am glad she doesn't feel like she's got to hide it any more.

"How about you get back into bed for a bit? I'll go and make you some tea." I sound like Hetty, don't I? But tea's supposed to be more palatable than coffee when you're ill, isn't it?

"Tea would be good." Kensi's not arguing with me, or even putting up a token protest, which just goes to show how rotten she must be feeling. "If I could just sleep for a couple of hours, I'll be fine. And then I'll have some tea. But then we'll need to go into town to buy some stuff. You know?" She falls into bed gratefully and pulls the covers up around her shoulders.

"Or you could tell me what kind you use and I could go get it?" I'm sitting on the side of the bed, petting her hair awkwardly, and feeling completely useless.

"That's sweet of you, but I'll be fine in a while. Honestly. It's just that sometimes, right at the start it's a bit rough, but then it settles down."

"You're sure? You're not just saying that? Because I can go buy that… stuff for you. If you give me the name." Tampons. The word is 'tampons'. It's a perfectly normal word and there's nothing to be afraid of, Deeks. So why can't you say it out loud? What a complete idiot I am. Here I am, trying to show how supportive and right-on I am and I can't even bring myself to say 'tampons'.

"You're not supposed to drive for a while, remember? Don't worry, Marty. I just need to sleep and let the pills start to work." Her eyes flutter shut, and I can't help noticing how dark her eyelashes look against her pale skin. I've never seen Kensi laid low like this and it is scaring me silly. I wait for a while, just until I'm certain she's asleep and then I tiptoe downstairs, grabbing my robe on the way.

I find myself standing at the kitchen sink, staring out of the window and not seeing a thing. The flagstone floor is freezing cold and my bare feet are numb, but all I can think about is Kensi. She's probably completely right – I mean, it is her body and all, but I can't help worrying. And then it strikes me like a hammer blow to the chest – this is nothing compared with the two days of hell she went through just a few weeks ago. If I think that I'm being driven demented right now, what on earth did Kensi feel like? There I was, sweating over saying 'tampons' and there she was, wondering if I was ever going to wake up. No wonder women are the stronger sex.

Eventually, I manage to pull myself together enough to make some coffee and go out onto the front porch to drink it in the sunshine. With any luck, the warmth will thaw out my feet too, because they have a slightly creepy blue tinge to them. It looks like I'm going to have to get myself some slippers to go with the robe. Little by little, I'm gradually getting domesticated. It's either Kensi's good influence or it's the early onset of middle-age. Hopefully, it's the former. The birds are singing their hearts out, and the light wind means I can smell the ocean in the air, but all I can think about is Kensi. Is it normal to feel this protective?

After a while I force my wits into some semblance of normality and go back inside, again creeping around and doing my best not to disturb her. Kensi is lying curled up in a ball, with the covers pulled right up over her head. It's very tempting to ease them back, just to make sure she's okay, but obviously that would be ridiculous, so I settle for kneeling down on the floor and putting my face really close to the covers, just to make sure she's still breathing. And then for some strange reason best known to myself, I crawl backwards out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, where I sit on the floor for a long while, trying to work out what to do next. I can't have a shower, because that might wake Kensi up. And I need to do something, to keep myself occupied. Okay, there's only one thing for it…

* * *

><p>"I brought you some tea." I'd waited patiently downstairs until I heard Kensi get up and go to the bathroom.<p>

"Thanks," She takes the cup in both hands and takes a slow sip. And then nearly throws the rest of the cup all over herself. "What did you do?"

What does she mean by that? I boiled the water, poured it over the tea bag and kind of dunked it up and down a couple of times before discarding it and adding some milk. That's how you make tea, isn't it? Unless you're British, or Japanese, or Chinese, of course, in which case it's a lot more complicated. "Doesn't it taste right?" It looked alright, but then it's not like I'd know. I drink coffee.

"The tea's fine." She takes another sip, as if to reassure herself of that. "I'm not talking about the tea. What did you do to your beard?"

"I shaved it off." I would have thought that was obvious.

"I can see that."

Kensi sounds quite annoyed, which is strange. Most people moan about my beard and tell me it's scruffy and I only have it because I'm too lazy to shave every day. Which is actually true, but beside the point, which is that it is my face and I can have a beard if I want to.

"Why? Why did you shave it off?"

"Because I was bored?" Well, it's almost the truth. Mind you, my hand was shaking so much it was a miracle I didn't cut my throat.

She shakes her head slowly. "You shaved because you were bored? Please tell me you only shaved your beard off?"

This is more like it. "No. that's not all I shaved."

"Dear God." Only there's a twinkle in her eyes, and she looks much more like herself. "Go on then, show me the worst."

* * *

><p><em>Slushy plot bunny is looking rather shocked...<em>


	27. Chapter 27

"Why are you looking there?" I ask, all innocent-like, because her eyes are firmly fixed on my groin.

"Because I'm just trying to steel myself for the inevitable. Come on – I'm waiting." And she's sounding quite impatient, I notice. One might even say excited. That's interesting…

It's a struggle to keep a straight face, but somehow I manage. "Do you know, Kensi – sometimes I think you only want me for my body."

"It's a pretty great body," she admits. Her eyes have still not moved.

"Yeah, but there are other bits of me too. Like my face."

That confuses her. "Your face?" Finally, she looks up at me.

"Uh huh. How about you look a bit more closely? Notice anything?" Clearly not. I wait another ten seconds but there is no dawning realization. Come on, Kensi: the clues are all there.

"Kensi – I didn't just shave off my beard. I shaved off my moustache too."

It's a good thing I've still got quick reactions, because I have to duck pretty sharpish to avoid the pillow Kensi throws at me.

"That's not fair. That was so totally not fair."

"I had you going though, didn't I?"

"Just you wait, Marty Deeks. Just you wait," she vows, between gritted teeth. "I'm going to get you for this."

"You mean for finding out you want to shave my junk?"

A smug smile creeps across her face. "I didn't say that. I mean, I might have been kind of curious to see what you would look like all bare down there, but I never said I wanted to shave you. Sounds a lot like you're projecting your fantasies onto me, mister."

I look her straight in the eyes. "It would be one way of passing a rainy afternoon." Especially if I could return the favour.

"True." Kensi turns and looks out of the window. "What a pity it's not raining."

"Isn't it just?" I may have created a monster here. However, it's important to keep an open mind about things. Never say never and all, that, because you just never really know, do you?

"Just out of interest, what did you use to shave with?" she asks.

"A razor." What else would I have used? A kitchen knife?

A resigned expression slips across her face. "You used my razor, didn't you?"

"It was pink, yeah." Not that I gave it much thought, to be perfectly honest. It was just a razor. Although if you'd asked me, I actually would have thought Kensi would have been the type to wax. The things you learn about your girlfriend.

"Great. You could have asked me. It's going to be really blunt, isn't it?"

"So blunt it's in the bin," I admit.

"Typical. Come here." Kensi pats the bed invitingly. "Let me see how good a job you've done." She looks closely, scrunching her eyes up and then runs her hand down my cheek. "Baby soft. You look a lot younger."

"Want to see how it feels kissing a younger man?" I don't actually give her an option.

"It feels like I'm cheating," Kensi announces some time later. "Like I'm kissing somebody completely different. Maybe we should do that again? Just so I can get used to the new you?"

I'm hardly likely to object, am I? And anyway, she'd better make the most of it while she can, because I don't plan to shave again in the foreseeable future.

* * *

><p>"I'm not sure about this," Kensi murmurs as we get out of the car. "I mean, what if someone sees us? What are they going to think?"<p>

Oh God. I thought we'd got over all this. "That we're two people going into a pharmacy?"

She ignores me. "They'll think I'm a cougar, that's what they'll think. Because you look about twenty two when you're clean-shaven."

Actually, that's one of the reasons I normally have stubble. I got fed up being carded all the time. And then there's the fact I've got better things to do with my time that shave. "Ha ha. funny."

"I thought so."

"So you'll get lots of envious stares? No change there then. You'd better just get used to it."

"You're not that cute, Deeks."

"Can I help it if you think so?"

Honours even, we go inside the pharmacy, and I lurk around the vitamin supplements, trying to look fascinated by ginko extract and starflower oil, while Kensi makes her purchases. They've actually got some pretty good deals on herbal remedies and I'm seriously considering investing in some ginseng, just until I'm back to my normal fitness, when Kensi virtually frog-marches me outside again.

"The day's wasting, Deeks. And I'm hungry."

Kensi with low-blood sugar is not a pretty sight, believe me, so I heed the warning and suggest we go for some lunch. And then I've got in mind to do a little shopping – so I can buy her a souvenir of our time here. Something slightly more romantic than a kite. I'm thinking along the lines of a pair of earrings, so I keep glancing in the windows of any jewellery shops we pass. So there we are, walking along and holding hands when all of a sudden there is a joyful yelp and this bundle of fur comes barreling up the street at a great rate of knots and then launches itself straight at my chest. Clearly, my reflexes aren't quite as good as I thought they were, because I go flying backwards, crashing down onto the concrete with a feeling of _deja vu_ as my head makes contact with an audible crack and the world immediately goes a disconcerting shade of red. Who would have thought Monty could move quite so fast, far less jump up at me like that? And what the hell is he doing here in Carmel in the first place?

"Marty?" I can't actually focus, but I'd know Kensi's voice anywhere. She sounds sick with worry, and I feel sick too. You know when you're on a fairground ride and there comes a point when you'd give anything for it to stop, because know you are going to throw up if it makes one more revolution? That's how I feel right now. Along with the fact that it feels like someone just took a sledgehammer to the back of my skull. Again.

There's something warm and wet on my cheek, and I realise it's Monty licking me, and giving anxious little whimpers at the same time. Kensi is gripping my hand so hard that I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever be able to use it normally again.

"I'm okay. I think." The world isn't spinning quite so fast now, and the red mist is starting to clear. I'm seeing double, but who wouldn't want to see two of Kensi? I try to sit up, only this hand on my chest pushes me firmly back down again.

"Don't even think about it, Deeks."

Sam? What the hell is Sam doing here? Clearly, resistance is futile, so I just lie there on the sidewalk feeling like time has rewound itself all over again. And then it hits me: we've been found out and Kensi is going to be so mad. I might as well just give up now, because I'm a dead man.

"Call an ambulance, Sam. He needs to go to hospital."

Why do people insist on talking about me as if I'm not here? "I don't need to go to hospital."

"Shut up, Deeks."

Okay, I think I might have hit my head harder that I thought, because now I'm hearing double – if that's possible. That sounded awfully like Sam and Callen talking in chorus. I open one eye cautiously and squint up, to see both of them staring down at me. Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, they just have and I kind of give a moan. Bad move. They both drop down onto their knees on the sidewalk, like they think I'm going to peg out on them at any second.

_**14. Gather.**__  
>Get together in groups for some new fun. Get a few couples together for a dinner, or let him tag along on a night out with your friends. Mixing up the crowd and making the group as diverse a possible puts the players (you and your honey) in a new scenario. You may discover a side to your lover you never saw before one-on-one and it could make you fall in love with them all over again.<em>

"I really am fine," I protest, but of course they're having none of it. This is getting seriously embarrassing – there's a crowd gathering around us. The only good thing to be said about the whole situation is that Hetty isn't here. Yet.

"That skull fracture isn't healed yet," Callen says firmly.

"And we're not taking any chances. I'm not letting you take any chances – not now. Okay?" Kensi is sounding fierce, but she's smiling down at me. And then she bends over and kisses me on the cheek. "So just humour me, okay?"

"Okay. If that's what you want." Well, I'd do anything for her, wouldn't I? this wasn't quite the way either of us had planned on telling the guys, but they don't actually seem that bothered. Maybe this is the way to break news – by potentially giving yourself brain damage? It's a bit drastic, but it does seem to work.

"That's what I want. I just want you to be okay," Kensi says, and then she kisses me again. I'm definitely feeling better, because I manage to move my head so that she's kissing my lips and I'm kissing her back. Callen makes this funny noise in the back of his throat and Sam just starts to chuckle.

"Put the man down, Kensi. If you don't let him come up for air soon, you're going to have to give him mouth-to-mouth."

"Shut up, Sam."

"Will someone get hold of Monty's lead? I don't want him running off."

I manage to sit up this time, only that was clearly a mistake, because things start to go very wrong at this point. It's hard to hear what people are saying, as if the sound is being turned down on the TV and my vision goes funny too – so I seem to be staring down this tunnel. The darkness keeps encroaching until I can't resist it any longer.


	28. Chapter 28

I know where I am before I even open my eyes. It's the smell that gives it away – the overpowering aroma of antiseptic and cleaning fluids. Plus the way you can hear people's feet squeaking off the well-polished floors. So I know instantly that I'm in hospital. Again. This is happening far too often for my liking. But at least there aren't any machines beeping this time, which has to be good news.

"How long was it this time?" I ask, and then struggle to open my eyes. It feels like someone hit me over the head. No, that's not right. It feels like I fell over backwards and cracked my head on concrete. Which is exactly what I did, after all.

"Six hours. You've been unconscious for just over six hours."

The room is dark, but that's because it is dusk outside, I realise. There are some dim lights around my bed, and I can just make out that over in the corner Hetty is sitting in the gloom.

That's a relief. Six hours is nothing. Well, it's not nothing, but it's an awful lot better than last time. "Better than two days." The familiar control is beside my right hand and I press the button so that the back-rest starts to move, raising me up into a semi-seated position.

"Much better." Hetty gets up stiffly and I wonder how long she's been sitting there. Probably since they brought me here, knowing her. "There's no need to worry, Mr Deeks. You're going to be fine."

"Thanks." Hetty's always had this ability to be able to read my mind. It comes in handy at times like these, because my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool and I'm finding it hard to concentrate.

"Your tests all came back clear – there's no major damage. But initially, I was slightly concerned about the possibility of second-impact syndrome," she continues, almost as if I hadn't spoken, "Which was why I arranged for you to be immediately airlifted back here to LA when Mr Callen informed me what had happened."

"I'm in LA?" Wow. I wasn't expecting that. What on earth is 'second-impact syndrome'? It sounds serious.

"Why, yes." She's standing at the side of the bed now, and reaches forward to pat my hand gently. "I wanted you to be treated at the best possible facility. And they were already familiar with your medical history. So it made sense."

"You had me med-evaced all the way back here?" That had to have been expensive. And kind of dramatic. She must have been really worried. I look more closely, and see that Hetty looks completely exhausted. I know how she feels.

"Sometimes cost is not a factor. Not when the welfare of one of my team is at stake. You matter to me, Mr Deeks – to all of us. Perhaps one day you will come to realise that."

There's a note of sadness in her voice that makes me feel really bad. "Sorry, Hetty. Really. It's just that I'm still getting used to it. Being part of a team, I mean." I've pretty much been on my own since I was a kid, after all, looking out for myself because there was no-one around who cared enough to bother. It still comes as kind of a shock to realise how tight-knit this team is.

"Don't blame yourself." This time Hetty actually picks up my hand and holds it very gently. "You're still feeling ill, and I shouldn't be upsetting you. But I do worry, you see."

I guess this is about as close as I'm ever going to get to knowing what it would be like to have a mother fussing over me. To tell you the truth, I kind of like it, although I will deny that to my dying day. "I'm okay though – aren't I?"

"You will be just fine," Hetty declares firmly, in that voice I know so well. "Just as long as you do exactly what you are told. There's always a danger that a second head injury in a short space of time can be extremely dangerous, which was why I was taking no chances. But you just have a concussion. Not that a concussion is a laughing matter."

"I'm not laughing." On the contrary, I'm finding it hard to keep my eyes open. Hetty keeps talking in a quiet voice, which is actually kind of soothing, and her thumb is gently stroking the back of my hand. I feel very tired and very safe and I'm just on the point of dropping back off to sleep when it suddenly strikes me. "Kensi?"

"She's on her way back to LA right now, with Mr Callen and Mr Hanna. And Monty, of course. I'm afraid it wasn't possible to for Ms Blye travel in the helicopter with you. There just wasn't enough room."

"She's going to be so worried." There's a lump in my throat and I can hear my voice start to break. Kensi must be climbing up the wall… and I just want her here, right now. All I can think about is how much I need her. I squeeze my eyes tight shut and concentrate very hard on not making a fool of myself.

"I've been keeping Ms Blye up to date with everything that's been happening. She knows you are not in any danger and she will be here soon. I promise you."

The bed starts to move back down again, and Hetty's hand strokes the hair back off my face. "Just go to sleep, Marty. And when you wake up, Kensi will be right here."

That sounds good. I'm so tired now and although I want to see Kensi, I can't actually force myself to stay awake any longer. Just as I am drifting off I can feel a tender touch on my cheek, and Hetty's voice talking quietly in the background, almost as if she is trying to lull me off to sleep.

"You have to start taking more care of yourself, because you really are terribly accident-prone, Marty. And you manage to scare me half-out of my wits today– but when I look at you lying there, I don't have it in my heart to scold you. I seem to be getting sentimental in my old age."

However, I'm pretty dopey right now, so I'm probably imagining all that. They do give the best meds when you're in hospital. It almost makes it worthwhile being here. Almost - but not quite. Given the choice, I'd rather be in Carmel, with Kensi. The last thing I remember before sleep grabs a hold of me is thinking that I never did get to buy her those earrings. I'm going to have to make this up to her somehow.

* * *

><p>Swimming upwards through a thick bank of fog, my head begins to clear and voices start to penetrate my consciousness.<p>

"…. and of course, we had to stop four times on the way back, on account of the fact that Monty kept needing to have a pee, which is why it took us so long. That dog's got worse bladder control than you have, Deeks."

"I thought we were supposed to be trying to encourage him to wake up, Sam?" Callen says. "Not tormenting him."

"He'd want to know Monty's alright and that there was no need to panic. I told you that you were over reacting. Monty was just fine – once he saw Deeks."

"He didn't eat a thing, Sam – nothing for nearly two days. Not even that fillet mignon, which cost a small fortune, by the way. And he kept whimpering, like he was in pain. Only the vet just said he was pining for Deeks. What else could I do? The animal looked like he was in pain."

"He was just fine, G," Sam repeats patiently. "The moment Monty saw Deeks he sprang into action. Literally. He knocked Deeks for six."

Wait a minute. They thought there was something wrong with Monty? There still could be, because what Callen and Sam know about dogs could fit into a matchbook with room to spare. No wonder they drove all the way down to Carmel. It's all starting to make sense, in a horrid sort of way.

"I didn't know that and I wasn't going to take any chances. You know how Deeks feels about that dog."

"What's wrong with Monty?" I ask, finally having worked out how to get my mouth moving properly. Whatever drugs they are giving me, they're kind of messing up my head. Or maybe that's the concussion?

"See? It worked. I knew talking about the pooch would do the trick." Sam sounds very pleased with himself. "Welcome back, Deeks. Nothing's wrong with Monty."

"How do you know?" I protest, pushing myself up onto my elbows and glaring at them accusingly.

"Because when we stopped for burgers on the way back to LA, he ate a whole one, and half of Kensi's fries," Callen informs me. "Only he spat out the pickle."

"Over the interior of my car." Sam doesn't sound too happy about that.

"So order him one without pickle next time. That's what I do. And don't put any salt on the fries, because that just makes him thirsty and then he drinks more, and when he drinks a lot…"

"He pees a lot." Sam finishes the sentence for me. "Yes, I worked that one out. Eventually."

"So he's okay? Really?"

"He's really okay. I was kind of worried, which was why we brought him down to Carmel – and the moment he saw you, he made a miraculous recovery. " Callen sits down on the side of the bed and surveys me critically. "You look a lot better too."

"He's shaved, that's why," Sam says, clearly subscribing to the view that now I am not in imminent danger of croaking he can revert to type. Which is basically to pretend he is as hard-nosed as they come. It doesn't fool me for one instant. "He looks almost human now. Apart from the hair, of course."

I'm not going to rise to that. "Where is Monty? And Kensi?"

"I was wondering when you'd get around to asking about Kensi."

Is it my imagination, or are they trading triumphant looks? "You had a bet, didn't you?"

"Yup. Sam reckoned your first words would be 'Kensi? Where are you?' But then he always was a hopeless romantic."

"Come on, G – after that little demonstration back in Carmel, I'm not the one you should be calling romantic." Is Sam blushing? It's hard to tell.

"Are you talking about Monty or Kensi? They both seem to have a thing for Deeks. One bowled him over and the other one kissed him so hard he passed out."

This well-honed double act could go on for hours, if I don't step in and put an end to it. "Would somebody tell me where Kensi is? Please?" I'm starting to get kid of anxious now.

Callen smirks. "He looks cute when he's worried, doesn't he, Sam?"

"He looks about six. Seven, on a good day."

Okay, that's it. The gloves are definitely coming off now. I lean back on the pillows, with a subdued sigh and concentrate on looking as weary and fragile as possible. I'm fairly hopeful that this, combined with the clean-shaven and undeniably youthful look, will tug appropriately at their heartstrings, but just to be sure I raise one hand up to my head and wince slightly, in a suitably brave fashion. It works a treat. All is fair in love and war, after all.

"Kensi's out giving Monty a trot round the grounds." Just as I thought, Sam was the one to break first. God, I am so good I'm bad. "It took us a long time to get back from Carmel, what with all the stops. And before we had to go back to the cottage before we left, to pick up all your stuff."

"Get her on her cell and tell her to bring him to the window."

"Deeks – you're on the second floor," Callen says patiently, but he hauls out his phone anyway and places the call.

"So? I can wave to him. If it was your kid down there and wasn't allowed to come in, wouldn't you do the same thing?"

"Deeks – Monty's a dog. Not a child." Sam gives me a worried look, like he thinks that I'm hallucinating or something.

"I know that. But it just makes it worse. It's not like he can understand what's going on, is it? He probably thinks it's all his fault. So he needs to know I'm okay." Monty's not only very sensitive, he's got a deep rooted insecurity complex. And right now all he knows is that I keep going away and leaving him.

"Kensi says she will personally kill you if you get out of bed," Callen announces, having finished the call, but I notice that he doesn't exactly try to stop me getting up. I might be injured (again) but I'm still bigger than him. Come to that, I'm bigger than Kensi too. And by the time she gets up here, I'll be back in bed anyway. What harm can it possibly do? No, don't bother answering that.

"Kensi is okay, isn't she?" My head starts swimming a bit as I sit up and swing my legs onto the floor, but I push that back.

"It depends what you mean by 'okay'" Sam says cautiously and then grabs my elbow as I start swaying. "And I really don't think this is a good idea."

I don't actually care. I want to see Monty and Kensi. "So what was she like?"

Callen gives me an appraising look and then shrugs in a resigned fashion. "He might as well know, Sam. She was terrified, Deeks. I've never seen her like that before."

It strikes me that going over to the window might just be signing my death warrant, but I figure that I owe it to Monty. And I hope that Kensi's going to understand. She'll see that I'm okay at any rate. What the heck. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I was always great at futile gestures anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Sometimes Deeks really doesn't have the sense he was born with, does he?<em>


	29. Chapter 29

Staggering slightly, and with Sam and Callen positioning themselves protectively on either side of me to make sure I don't take another tumble (they obviously reckon I'm still dopey enough not to notice this cunning ploy) I eventually make it over to the window without any further mishap. There, far down below, Kensi is standing on the grass, holding onto Monty's lead and scanning the rows of windows, trying to work out exactly where I am. Monty is lying down, with his head on his paws and looking particularly depressed, even by his standards, which is really saying something. After a brief struggle, I manage to get the window open and lean out.

"Baby girl!"

Seeing Kensi standing down there makes me realise how much I wish she was up here beside me. I just want to hold her, and to be held by her and then I'll know that everything is alright. Why do these things keep happening to me? To us, I should say, because Kensi looks kind of strung out and I can't really begin to imagine how rough this has been on her. If it was her up here, and me down there, I reckon I'd be needing industrial quantities of valium. Only then I probably wouldn't be standing up, of course. But you get my point.

"Monty! Hey boy!" I lean out a bit further and start waving.

It's actually quite gratifying to see the way Monty jumps up and then starts looking anxiously into the air, trying to work out where the disembodied voice is coming from. Kensi, of course, spots me immediately and flashes me a huge grin, before she remembers she's supposed to be annoyed.

"Get back into bed, you idiot." Her voice floats up quite clearly in the still night air, as she crouches down beside Monty, and then points up to where I'm hanging out of the window, for his benefit.

"I bet Kensi says that to Deeks all the time," Callen says in an undertone that I'm clearly meant to hear. I ignore him, mainly because I'm gazing at Kensi like some love-struck fool. Which I am, so it's kind of par for the course.

Sam doesn't say anything, but just contents himself with reaching out and grabbing onto the waistband of my hospital-issue jammies, like I'm some little kid and might tumble out of the window if I'm not careful. Actually, he's got a point there, given that I'm standing on tip-toe, with half my upper body leaning out rather precariously into mid-air. Still, given the way the elastic is digging into my stomach, I've got a sneaking suspicion they can both see my bare butt. Good for them. I hope they enjoy the view.

"He's fine, Deeks – look at him," Kensi calls up, and Monty gives a loud bark in confirmation. "But you won't be, if you don't get that gorgeous body back into bed."

"What did I say?" Callen asks rhetorically. "She just can't stop herself. Kensi just has to look at Deeks and she immediately thinks of bed." Then he shuts the window smartly, just milliseconds after Sam has hauled me back inside and missing my nose but about a quarter of an inch. "You heard the lady – bed." Just to make sure I don't misunderstand, he actually points towards the bed, like I'm slightly lacking or something.

"How about you let me go for a pee first?"

All that leaning out of the window has made me uncomfortably aware that it has to be a good twelve hours since I last had a pee and my bladder is uncomfortably full. Added to which, it's actually quite a relief to escape from the smart remarks and into the privacy of the bathroom. But I've barely finished doing what needs to be done when there's a loud bang on the door. For crying out loud. Can't a man even pee in peace? What is wrong with these people?

"Give me a chance, will you?"

"Are you okay in there?" And that is most definitely not a male voice.

"I'm washing my hands, Kensi."

The relief in her voice is unmistakable. "Just checking."

When I open the door, she's standing there, hands on hips. I take a quick peek and discover there's no sign of either of the guys and I'm not quite sure if that is a good or a bad thing.

"Hi you." God, she looks good. But kind of angry at the same time. Now, you can call me stupid, but I kind of get the impression we're not about to have a big romantic reunion any time soon. No wonder Callen and Sam have made themselves scarce, because Hurricane Kensi is about to hit.

"Hi yourself."

Mmmm. This isn't going quite as well as I'd hoped. Perhaps it might be best to start off with a neutral subject? "Where's Monty?"

"Oh, I let him off his leash to go play on the freeway," she says sarcastically. "What the hell do you think I did with him, Deeks? Give me a little credit, will you?"

That was slightly worse than I'd anticipated. "He's in the car?" I venture, not wanting to assume anything right now.

"No- he's having a look round the cafeteria. Of course he's in the car. And before you say anything, I made sure the radio was tuned to his favourite talk show."

Okay, she's officially mad at me. Great. "I was just worried about him, that's all."

"You were worried, were you?" Kensi takes a step forward and pokes me in the chest. "You were worried?" The second jab goes right between my ribs and is really quite painful. No doubt that was entirely intentional. Kensi knows her way around the body, after all. In a technical sense, I mean, although now I come to think about it, she knows her way around my body in intimate detail, which kind of gives her an unfair advantage.

And that was definitely entirely the wrong thing for me to say, wasn't it? It seems safest to confine myself to monosyllables right now, on the grounds I might incriminate myself if I actually try to say anything more. "Uh huh."

"Well, I've got news for you, Marty Deeks – I wasn't worried. Not one bit. I was perfectly fine with seeing you lying there unconscious on the sidewalk – again. It was a complete walk in the park watching you being airlifted out of Carmel and that drive back to LA with your semi-incontinent dog was possibly the best laugh I've had for years. In fact, the whole thing was so much fun, I reckon we should do it all over again."

"You're mad at me, aren't you?" Sometimes I just can't help myself. If you could get degrees in stating the blindingly obvious, I'd have graduated _summa cum laude_ and be half-way to a PhD.

"Why on earth would I be mad at you?" Kensi has gone ominously calm now, which I know is a bad sign. They don't talk about the calm before the storm for nothing. "I mean, it's perfectly normal for someone who has just been unconscious for six hours to hang out of a widow half-naked, in the middle of the night, isn't it?" Well, she's got a point there, I've got to admit. A pretty good point too. But what else was I supposed to do? Ask Sam or Callen for a loan of one their shirts? I don't think so.

"I wanted to see you and Monty," I mumble, feeling like a little kid making excuses. "Especially you. I missed you and I wanted to see you."

Not only does that sound completely pathetic, it was probably the worst possible thing I could have chosen to say, because her face crumples completely. "I'm sorry. I wanted to be here too, only I was worried about Monty…" She sniffs loudly, and then wipes her nose on her sleeve. "I really wanted to be here when you woke up again, because I wasn't here earlier."

"You're here now," I say lamely, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do now, because we're standing here, just staring at each other and all I can think is that it isn't supposed to be like this. "You're here and I'm fine. I didn't mean to give you a fright." And I definitely didn't mean to make her cry. Again. I can't cope with seeing Kensi cry, because it just seems all wrong.

"I know you didn't." And she looks at me and I feel like I'm falling in love with her all over again. Have I ever mentioned what incredible eyes Kensi has? They are huge, and so luminous it's as if they are full of stardust and just reflecting the mysteries of the universe right back at you. And when they are full of tears, as they are know, they just seem ever bigger and more beautiful, if that's possible. But I'm kind of prejudiced, I guess, because I think Kensi is the most amazing woman in the world and I still haven't quite figured out what she sees in me.

"I'm sorry for being such a fool." I take a step towards her, half-hesitantly, because my ribs are still kind of sore from that poke she delivered earlier.

"And I'm sorry for yelling at you." Her smile is decidedly wobbly, but it's a smile, and that has to be good.

"Come here." I hold my arms open wide and by some miracle, the next thing I know is that Kensi is pressing up against me and holding on to me so tightly it's as if she is trying to meld our two bodies together into a single entity. And I'm aware of hot tears trickling slowly down my bare chest. "Hey, don't cry."

"I'm not crying."

Okay, that's a complete lie, because the face she turns up to mine is decidedly tear-stained, but it doesn't matter, because we're fine.

"I know." I take a lot of time kissing away each single tear. "Have I told you how much I love you?"

"Not for a while."

"So how about I make that right?"

Hospital beds are sort of narrow, but if you don't mind lying together really closely, there isn't actually a problem.

"Promise me you won't do that again?" Kensi begs and then nuzzles my neck and winds her legs around mine, as if she's trying to make sure I can't escape. That's fine, because there is nowhere else I would rather be than in the hot circle of her embrace.

"Baby, I'd do anything for you. Anything at all. I don't ever want to make you cry again."

"You've got to promise. It doesn't work if you don't promise," she stays stubbornly, and I can just see the little girl she once was. She must have been adorable then, because she's irresistible now.

"You want to make it a pinky promise?" Hey, some of my best friends were girls when I was growing up. And now my best friend is also my lover and the one woman I can't live without.

Kensi nods, and we link our pinkies together.

"I promise I'm going to be with you forever."

Does that sound awfully grown-up to you? It does to me. It sounds incredibly like something a real adult would say, and that should be scary, only it isn't. I mean ever single word – most definitely. I think I've just made a huge commitment here, and you know what? It feels great. Just to make sure she understands, I wind a strand of her hair around my finger.

"There. That settles it. I'm never letting you go."

"That's why I love you," Kensi says happily. "Because you say the nicest things."

"Even if I am an idiot who keeps knocking himself out?"

"I'm willing to overlook that. Just this once. Or even both times. But don't push it, okay?"

"I promised, didn't I?"

"So you did. I guess I should make a promise too, just so we're even?"

"That would only be fair."

"Okay. I promise to love you forever. How does that sound?"

It sounds absolutely, one hundred per cent perfect. But I can't actually say that, on account of the fact I'm far too busy kissing her. Kensi just makes my day and I know I'll never be lonely now that she's in my life and in my heart. It's this simple: Kensi just fills my heart with so much joy it's like the whole world is brand new and sparkling fresh. I just feel so lucky, loving her and nothing else matter except for the fact that we are together. Only it would be good if the bed was a little bigger and if there was a lock on the door. Still, you can't have everything, and I've got so much, I really shouldn't complain.

* * *

><p><em>Slushy plot bunny appears to have taken up residence in this story...<em>


	30. Chapter 30

But, like I said, it would have been good if the door had a lock on it. That might just have stopped Sam and Callen from walking in on us. Then again, knowing what they are like, it probably wouldn't. Sam probably would have just put his shoulder to it and then strolled on in. Still, it would have been nice if they'd knocked or something.

"Put the man down, Kensi." You know just know that it was Callen who said that, don't you? I really think we need to find the man a girlfriend. He's far too interested with what's going on between Kensi and me. I can't remember the last time Callen went out on a date. No, let me rephrase that: I can't ever remember Callen going out with anybody, period. OF course, there was that smooch he had with his ex-wife, Tracey, a year or so ago, but I don't think that counts. Especially as she was planning on duping him and then running off with $5 million. It's obvious that Callen needs to find himself some action. I mean, we all go through fallow periods (well, not me, of course) but Callen's going to find himself trapped in an endless desert if he's not careful.

"I'm just making sure he feels okay," Kensi protests, sitting up and smoothing down her hair.

"And how does Deeks feel?" Callen enquires, with rather too much interest for comfort.

I'm now beginning to understand why Kensi wasn't so keen on us telling everybody. I'm beginning to feel like a lab rat or something.

"Oh, he feels great, Callen. Absolutely wonderful, in fact."

Kensi gives our tormentor a happy smile and then turns to give me a fake glare. At least, I hope it's fake. I'm almost certain it is, but then again I've learned never to jump to any conclusions, at least not where Kensi is concerned. I manage a slightly weak smile in response, but it's kind of hard to have any semblance of credibility far less any dignity when everybody else in the room is fully clothed and you're just wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, after all.

It turns out that I was right to be worried, because Kensi deepens the glare, so that it turns into a frown, and I can see that vein in her forehead pop out. That's never a good sign. Her next words confirm my suspicions

"If you ever do anything like that again, I am going to sit on you to make sure you stay I bed, okay?"

Callen tries to look innocent, but he's not really got the face for it. "Why not lie your whole length on top of Deeks, just to make sure he doesn't put up any resistance? No – wait a minute, I forgot. That's exactly what you were doing when we came in, wasn't it?"

I've got this vague hope that Sam might come to our defence, given that he's been largely silent so far, contenting himself with leaning back against the door, arms crossed and an expression of amusement on his face. Sam's a great guy, who hides his soft heart behind an extremely effective veneer of reinforced concrete. You might think he's as tough as nails, but you'd be wrong. Sam's bound to feel sorry for me, and tell his partner to lay off the sick guy. That's the sort of thing Sam does. And then I look more closely at his face and my heart sinks.

"I told you it wasn't safe to leave Kensi alone with Deeks when he was unconscious the first time he was here in hospital, G – remember? Like I said then: she could have done anything to him as he lay there, all defenceless and completely naked. She could have done anything. Anything at all." He raises one eyebrow in what can only be described as a salacious manner. "Don't forget the man was naked, G. And unconscious."

Does he really have to keep rubbing it in like that? Stupid question, because clearly he does. I hate Sam Hanna, I really do.

"I'd forgotten he was naked," Callen says slowly, but with a beam of evil delight.

And I'd forgotten just what a good double act this pair really are. More fool me. Oh well, if in doubt, launch a counter-attack and take the war into the enemy's camp. I've always been good at futile gestures, so why change the habits of a lifetime?

"How do you know I was naked? You peeked, didn't you?" I manage to leave the mute accusation of 'perverts' hanging in the air.

"Would you rather I'd let Hetty give you a bed bath?" Sam asks, apparently seriously

He is joking, isn't he? I feel strangely violated. I would rather shave my head and my entire body than be subjected to that particular indignity. In deperation, I give Kensi a pleading look. She's my one hope amidst all this madness

"Leave him alone," Kensi says protectively. "You can tell him all about how the pair of you lusted after his naked body tomorrow."

Why is everybody so obsessed with the fact I was naked back then? And exactly why was I naked?

"But it's getting late now," Kensi continues and then she looks at her watch, gives an exclamation of horror and leaps off the bed. "It's after midnight. Deeks – get under the covers and go to sleep."

Callen makes a small tutting noise under his breath that makes him sound incredibly like Hetty, which is oddly terrifying. "Yet again, Kensi's telling Deeks to get into bed. I think she needs help."

"I think we need to get out of here and let the man have some rest." Sam gives his partner a hearty shove. "You can come back tomorrow and wind him up all over again."

"Please tell me they didn't give me a bed bath?" I plead, once the door has shut behind them. I'm pretty sure they are both standing outside with their ears waggling, but I'm never going to be able to go to sleep unless I know the truth.

"Of course they didn't."

There's something about the look on Kensi's face that makes me suspicious. "And neither did you or Hetty, right?" If anything, that's even worse.

"Of course we didn't. Do you really think I'd want Hetty anywhere around if I was doing that? No, if you really want the truth, there was practically a line of nurses stretching right along the corridor, with sponges in hand and eager expressions on their faces, all just waiting to volunteer for that particular privilege."

"You're having me on, aren't you?" I mean, I know I'm not bad looking, and I am fairly fit. Plus there's the fact I've got seriously great hair, but it's not like I'm Brad Pitt or anything. Mind you, now I come to think about it, Kensi ad I just might have that whole Brad and Angelina vibe going on. It's probably her hair, I think. There are worse people to be compared to, after all.

"I might have exaggerated slightly," she admits.

"Or were projecting your own fantasies?" I suggest.

"There might just have been the slightest element of wish fulfillment, but basically I'd rather have you wide awake and paying attention, if it's all the same. Although at least when you were unconscious you didn't talk all the time." She's teasing – I think.

"Yeah, but you missed that, didn't you? My sparkling repartee and general _joie de vivre_?"

The light dies out of her eyes for just a second and when she speaks again, Kensi is definitely not kidding around any more. "Oh God, yes. Yes, I did. I missed it so much. Sitting there, holding your hand and talking to you, but not getting any response was… horrific. Beyond anything I'd ever dreamt of in my worst nightmares. Even hearing you talk your usual nonsense is better than nothing." Her smile is wry and she takes hold of my hand and squeezes it very tightly.

"But not as good as me whispering sweet nothings though?" I suggest, and squeeze back, very tightly.

"You know it. But it is late. And you do look tired."

I feel tired too, and there's no point in trying to deny, because Kensi would see straight through me in an instant. I can't hide anything from her. "So do you, come to that. You need to go home and get some sleep."

"I think I will." Kensi must be shattered, because normally she likes to give the impression that she's superwoman. "I'm so tired, I might even let Monty sleep with me."

See, Monty might not look like much of a dog, but he grows on you, on account of his sweet personality. Even Kensi's fallen for him, just like I knew she would. "He snores, you know."

"And he farts as well, but he's better than nothing." She throws me a very significant look. "Do you mind if I stay over at your place?"

"Sure."

"It's just that… if I sleep I your bed, I can lie there and I can smell you on the sheets, so it's almost like you're with me." She gives a shrug, as if to tell me she knows this is idiotic, only it's not. It's possibly the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me.

"I'll be out of here tomorrow."

"I'll hold you to that." Kensi turns the lights down and then kisses me goodnight before she leaves, and I lie there, holding onto the thought of her, just the thought of her.

* * *

><p>"Deeks!"<p>

There is something poking into my ribs and it takes me a couple of minutes to work out that it's Kensi's elbow, jamming in repeatedly.

"What?"

"Can't you hear it?"

Well, no – because I'm not really awake. And given the choice, I'd really rather go back to sleep. Unless Kensi can think of something to do that doesn't involve inflicting pain and suffering.

"Hear what?" I've no sooner said this than an ominous howl splits the air. Great. Way to go, Monty. Nice timing.

"That. Monty. Your dog Monty." It's funny how at three in the morning Kensi manages to lose all affection for Monty.

Now, colour me wrong, but I'm get the definite impression Kensi is trying to hint at something here. Maybe there was a clue in her use of the second person pronoun? It's not going to work.

"Kensi, I told you it wasn't a good idea to give him the remains of that spinach and lentil loaf Nell made us."

"Well, we weren't going to eat it, were we? It was disgusting."

I'm lying curled up and Kensi wriggles over a little closer, so that she echoes my position, and her butt nudges into my stomach. Automatically my arms reach out to pull her closer and she gives that little sigh of pleasure I've grow accustomed to. Now, it's true enough, that spinach surprise was possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever eaten. It only took one mouthful to confirm that it was basically inedible. If anything, Nell is even less-skilled in the culinary arts than Kensi, which is really saying something.

"You didn't have to inflict it on Monty though," I remind her, still sewing the seeds that this is her fault, and therefore her responsibility.

"He liked it." There's female logic for you.

"And now he's paying for it." You can see where I'm going with this, can't you? My dog, but her fault is basically the line I'm advancing here. Only Kensi is being deliberately obtuse. Which is actually quite impressive, given it's three a.m.

"What else was I supposed to do with it?" she asks.

"Throw it out with the garbage?" Like normal people do?

Kensi gives me a look. "Nell made it for us. She went to a lot of time and trouble. I couldn't just throw it away."

I could have. I nearly threw it up, if you want the truth. It was disgusting, and that was on a good day. "Next time, just throw it away. Listen to him." As if on cue, Monty lets out a low, rumbling belch. At least, I hope it's a belch and not something worse. Whatever it is, you can practically feel the floor vibrate and that's never a good sign.

"He needs to go out."

"I know." So get up and take him out, why don't you?

She kicks me again. "And he's your dog."

I knew it. What did I tell you? I just knew it would come to this.

"I'm not well. I'm still recovering from a nasty accident," I say, with a long-suffering air.

Come on – give me a break here. I never said I had any scruples, did I? Life deals you a hand of cards and it is up to you how you play them, after all. And right now, I'm taking any advantage I can get. Actually, if you want the truth, I've never felt better in my life. It's been two weeks since I got out of hospital and I feel great. Kensi feels even better, of course. Just to make sure, I give her a squeeze and nuzzle her neck. Yup, she feels delectable and she tastes even better. No change there then.


	31. Chapter 31

"You were just fine a couple of hours ago," Kensi says darkly. "You were positively bursting with health and vigour, in fact. Go on, take him out." Just for added emphasis, she back-heels my shin. The woman has a kick like a mule.

"The honeymoon period is definitely over, isn't it? This is what it's going to be like from now on – being kicked out of bed for something that isn't even my fault," I grumble, more because I feel I've got to put up at least a token protest than anything else, and haul myself out of bed. The full moon is shining clearly through a gap in the curtains, casting a shimmering glow around the room. I pull them wide open and stare out into the night sky. "But it's a gorgeous night. Look."

"I'm sure it's lovely." Kensi rolls over and sprawls luxuriously across pretty much the entire width of the bed. "Have a nice walk."

"You really need to see this. Seriously."

Kensi takes a cursory look and then shrieks in horror. "Deeks! You do realise you are standing there stark naked?"

"You don't normally have a problem with that."

In fact, there are times when she positively tears the clothes off me. Then again, that might be because she doesn't like half my shirts and is determined to restock my wardrobe. What is it with women and wanting to dress men up like they're Malibu Ken or something? Mind you, knowing Kensi's family background, she probably just had GI Joe, whose most exciting outfit was the Marine dress uniform, so she's maybe just making up for lost opportunities. Mind you, he did have lots of cool accessories – although he was lacking the ultimate one: i.e. a nice piece of arm candy. Of course, that might have been due to the fact that he was lacking something else too. Isn't it just a little bit worrying that the action figure that represents our armed forces is gender-neutral? If you think about it, that has to be unpatriotic doesn't it? Or maybe it's just puritanically prudish? Either way, there could be whole generations of boys thinking they're abnormal because they don't look anything like GI Joe in the trouser department, after all. Not me, obviously, because I never had any worries there. I still don't, if you must know.

But if I thought Hetty was bad when it came to clothes (like the fact she has no taste and yet insists on deciding what Callen wears undercover half the time, which either goes to prove that he has even less taste than she does, or that he's even more sacred of her than I am), then Kensi is even worse. It's like she's determined to re-invent me or something. It's been a long time since I was dressed by a woman and looking back, I think it all started with that robe and recently it's moved on to trying to make me wear jeans one size too small. No way. I want to end the day with my body parts in the same state of repair they started off in, if you don't mind. She even bought me those underpants that David Beckham advertises. They was actually okay, because I do look kind of amazing in them. And before you say anything, I am not boasting. I know that I look fantastic in them, because Kensi told me so, shortly before she took them off. With her teeth. She's a clever girl, is Kensi, and very inventive too. And according to Kensi, I looked a whole lot better in those underpants than Mr Beckham. That's probably because I'm not covered in tattoos, which sort of detract from the main attraction, if you get my drift. Oh, and because I don't have to stuff a sock down the front either.

"I didn't say I had a problem with you being naked," Kensi protests. I should say not. "But anyone looking up from the street might."

"Can I help it if I make other men feel inferior?" They're all my very own, God-given assets, after all. Still, she probably does have a point: it wouldn't be the greatest career move to find myself up on charges of indecent exposure, so I move away. "Come on, Kensi – it's a beautiful night. Look."

Kensi raises her head just enough so that she can see out of the window. "Very nice." And then she looks back at me, standing there and wearing nothing more than moonlight and she gives me a sleepy smile that still manages to be incredibly alluring.

"It's more than nice. It's romantic." I stress that last word deliberately. As you know, men don't really do romance. Not unless we are forced to.

"Great. You can go out and be romantic with Monty." She's being kind of obtuse here, isn't she?

"Maybe we could go out and be romantic together?" I'm being as persuasive as I know how to be.

"Or I could stay here in bed?" Kensi snuggles back down into the pillows, with a beatific smile. "Enjoy your walk."

I've got one last card to play in this little game and I've saved the best till last. "We could go skinny dipping. Actually, I might just do that."

Bingo! Just like I thought, that has the desired reaction and Kensi shoots upright.

"You are not swimming in the ocean, not at this time of night. You're not well enough. You could have a relapse or anything."

"You just said I was well enough to take Monty out," I remind her, never having had the slightest intention of swimming at this time of year, when the Pacific has a tendency to freeze your balls off during the day, far less in the middle of the night. "So maybe you'd better come with me, just in case I have that relapse. I don't want you to lie here worrying about me." I think it's greatly to my credit that I don't sound smug at all.

"You're not going to be happy until I come out with you, are you?" Kensi says, heaving a dramatic sigh. She's not daft and she knows when she's beaten. Which she is.

"What a great idea. Why didn't I think of that?" Once again, she throws a pillow at me, and once again I duck. Sometimes I think Kensi has passive-aggressive tendencies, I really do.

Ten minutes later, and we're on the beach, where the air is crisp, with a freshness you don't often associate with LA. Okay, if you really want the truth, it's the middle of the night, it's cold and we're freezing our butts off out here, but the sky is cloudless and the moon is floating like some ghostly galleon across the vast darkness. That is some serious moonlight. We walk slowly along the sand, and Monty gambols ahead of us, having done the necessary the second we got outside. It only took two poop bags, so it wasn't that bad after all. You kind of get used to these sort of things when you own a dog, through sheer necessity if nothing else.

"You've got to admit it – this is romantic."

"We could have been romantic indoors." Kensi shivers dramatically, so I pull her close to me, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. She's wearing my favourite sweater, a thick, hand-knitted number in French navy, with a shawl collar and it looks incredible on her. I've got a feeling it's going to end up in her side of the closet.

"Yeah, but then we wouldn't have had the moon and the stars. Look." I turn her around so that she is looking out across the inky blackness of the ocean, where the moon is casting down this silver path across the water, like it is beckoning us home. "Isn't that amazing?"

"You're right." Her arm snakes around my waist and she slips her hand into the front pocket of my jeans. "It's beautiful. And it feels like we've got the whole world to ourselves."

Peace and quiet is a rare commodity in LA, but for once we are the only people here, and there is no sound of traffic, just the gentle sound of the water breaking onto the shore. We could be on an island, complete and separate from everyone and everything. Right now, nothing can intrude.

"Yeah, but this way we get to share it with each other." I pull her closer and she turns her head so that it is cradled in the crook of my elbow and we have one of these kisses that has no beginning and no end. If I had to measure love, I'd say that it is a thousand kisses deep.

Tonight is unique: it will never happen again and no-one will ever know about our moonlight walk across the silent sands. We are walking into the darkness and I have no fear at all, because Kensi is by my side and we are going forward together, side by side, trusting in each other. It's the way things should be and by some miracle, it's also the way things actually are. Since when did I get so lucky? We're making another memory, of a silver-tinged night, when we were completely alone and we had everything we could dream of. On a night like this you believe that anything is possible and we've got the whole of our futures just waiting to be written.

After a while we turn around and start to go back home, following the footprints we've made in the sand. And that's when I get one of my great ideas.

"Come on: jump up." I slap my butt invitingly.

Kensi looks at me as if I'm mad. "What are you talking about?"

"I want to give you a piggy back. Come on – humour me."

"You want to give me a piggy back? she repeats incredulously.

"It'll be fun."

Kensi just stands and looks at me, like I've lost the few wits I once had. Come on – you crack your skull hard enough to knock yourself out not just once, but twice – in the same month to boot – and you're telling me I didn't lose a few thousand brain cells in the process? Yeah – and Hetty is five foot six.

"Deeks – what are you up to?"

Once again, she's got me. But then she had me pretty much from the start. I've never been able to resist Kensi and somehow I don't think I will ever be able to resist her. Not when she looks at me like that.

"Alright. I just thought it would be kind of cool if someone was walking along in the morning and they saw these two sets of footprints – and then all of a sudden there was just one. Kind of like Robinson Crusoe, only in reverse." I don't know where these ideas come from, I really don't.

"You are completely mad. You know that, don't you?"

Of course I do. I'm madly in love. Head over heels, crazy in love. "Are you getting up then?"

Kensi starts laughing and jumps up, wrapping her legs around my waist. Once she's safely in position I start running back along the beach and she's clinging on, hugging me and laughing, one arm on my shoulder and the other one waving wildly in the air as she encourages me on, whooping with glee. All of a sudden the sheer madness of the situation strikes me and then I'm laughing too, laughing so hard that my knees give way and we both tumble down on to the sand and roll over and over, laughing and kissing and behaving like two kids who have just discovered they own the world and there is nothing they cannot do. And then we lie on the sand, holding hands, breathing in the sharp, sea air, bathed in moonlight, staring up at the stars and just laughing so hard that after a while Monty comes up to see what's going on. I don't think I've ever been so happy in my whole life.

_**15. Laugh.**__  
>Above all, be sure you laugh. If you don't have fun, it's not worth it, right? Make jokes, tickle, play games - have fun, and your love will last for a long, long time.<em>

"How about we go and look at some places tomorrow?" I suggest and Kensi rolls over to look at me.

"Really? You're serious?"

"Believe me, I've never been more serious about anything in my life. If you still want us to move in together. You do, don't you?" Just for a moment, I'm beginning to wonder about that.

"Let me think about it, okay?" She rolls onto her back and stares up at the sky. I would be worried, only I can see this huge grin on her face. I start counting, and I actually get up as far as eight before she caves it. "I do. I definitely do."

So that's it then. We're really going to do this. Commitment, here I come. Just when I'm thinking that this is as good as it gets, I notice that Monty has got a seagull in his mouth. Or maybe I smelt it first, because it is an ex-seagull and, more than that, it is only half a seagull. I don't want to even think about where the other half of it is. I just hope it's not in Monty's stomach, that's all.

"Like I keep telling you, Deeks: he's your dog," Kensi says, jumping up to her feet with incredible speed, as Monty wags his tail happily, like he's done us some big favour. "Have fun."

As Monty advances towards me, Kensi moves further away. I don't blame her. I'd be doing exactly the same thing if I could, only Monty's planted his front paws on my crotch and he's leaning all his weight on the. One wrong move could potentially spell disaster, so he's effectively got me trapped. And, just to make things really great, the seagull is now dangling far too close to my face to make breathing pleasant.

"You just had to go and ruin everything, didn't you?" I ask, only Monty mistakes this for me telling him that I'm really thrilled by his hunting prowess and he dumps the repulsive thing right on my chest. Talk about the ultimate passion killer. Nothing says 'you're not getting into my bed' like the rotting aroma of dead seagull, after all.

Kensi starts walking up the beach, which is also upwind of the seagull. I just lie there, looking in bemused horror at the corpse and my dumb dog, and trying not to gag.

"Bury it," she instructs. "I'm going home to try to warm up."

"You could make some hot chocolate," I call. "And maybe put in some of those little marshmallows?"

"Do not even think of coming anywhere near me until you've had a shower," she commands, in her best 'she who must be obeyed' tone of voice.

That is sound advice actually, because the bird is really ripe. That's another of my garments going into the garbage, I can tell. But I can still turn things to my advantage: when I come out of the shower, I might just put on my David Beckham specials and really make this a night to remember.


	32. Chapter 32

Why did nobody ever bother to tell me that house-hunting is the seventh circle of hell? You would think that it should be relatively easy, given that we are looking to find one place to rent, and combining our salaries, so we should have more money and be able to get a better place. That's great in theory. The problem is that what looks good on paper isn't quite so great when you actually view it in the cold hard light of reality. So far we've looked at places where the last tenant appeared to be a crack dealer, apartments that are actually more like extended closets and ones where the so-called garden is actually a concrete patio measuring a massive ten foot by four foot.

"Why is this so hard? We just want a place with a decent sized living room, party-walls that aren't built out of cardboard and somewhere that will take Monty." Our wish-list has been cut right down to the bare essentials. And even these are proving elusive.

"You wouldn't believe how many places say you can have pets, but what they mean is a goldfish."

"Which is why a fish is the ideal pet," Sam informs me.

Callen takes up the cudgels. "And then, when it dies…"

"We already know." Kensi cuts off their well-honed routine so that it lies there, dead in the water. "You've got sushi. Very funny. But we don't have a fish, do we? We've got a dog."

It's 'our' dog now, did you notice that? We are officially a couple. We've been a couple for over a month now, and people have stopped commenting on it. Now, if only we could find somewhere to live together as a couple, everything would be great.

"And we're not eating Monty, so don't even suggest it."

"You could put a bob-tail on him, and a pair of floppy ears and tell them he's a really big rabbit."

We all turn and just look at Eric, with our jaws dropping. There really isn't anything you can say in reply to that, after all. He senses our collective disbelief and total lack of understanding. "It was a joke," he adds hastily.

Really? You could have fooled me.

"Some places take rabbits, that's all I'm saying." He's not helping himself.

"You've got a pet bunny, haven't you?" This big smile is creeping across Sam's face, as he senses a new victim to toy with. Just wait until I start dropping hints to his daughter about how much fun it would be if she had a real live pony to play with, not just a plastic one. That'll wipe the smile of his face and no mistake.

"She's housetrained," Eric says defensively.

Callen seizes on the opportunity. "She? And what would she be called? Thumper?"

"Thumper was a boy," Kensi informs him.

"Are you sure? He sounded like a girl."

"He was a boy," I confirm. "Just not anatomically correct. But that's Disney for you. Lassie was a boy too."

"Lassie was a girl," Kensi says. "Definitely. They called her 'girl' all the time. And 'Lassie' is a girl's name."

"I know that. But the dog that played Lassie was a boy. Really." It's amazing the amount of totally irrelevant information I have at my fingertips. Or even on the tip of my tongue.

Sam decides it's time to get the subject back on track. "So if it's not called Thumper, what is your bunny rabbit called? Flopsy? Mopsy? Cottontail?"

I'd never have pegged Sam for a Beatrix Potter fan, but you learn something every day, don't you?

"Debbie," Eric mutters. "My rabbit is called Debbie."

"Debbie?" Callen shakes his head. "Who calls a rabbit 'Debbie'?"

"Eric," Nell offers, which pretty much kills that conversation stone-dead. Still, we'd probably baited him for long enough. It wouldn't have been long before the bunny-girl jokes started coming out. I know that, because I had a couple just lined up and waiting to be told. "You still haven't found a place to rent then?"

"No," Kensi says shortly, and through gritted teeth.

"We've must have looked at just about everything in our price range and within reasonable travelling distance."

Nell gives her pensive look. "I might be able to put you onto something," she says, with that vague air she affects when she knows a whole lot more than she's prepared to let on. I wonder about Nell sometimes, I really do. How can someone that small be quite so sneaky? And then I remember that Hetty is even smaller and considerably sneakier. Obviously it's the little ones you have to be wary of. I'm going to have to start to keep a closer eye on Callen in that case.

"Really? That would be great." I'm not proud. On the contrary, I'm desperate. I'd like to find a place to share before we're both drawing our pensions, after all. Kensi just looks sceptical.

"Let me see what I can do. I've got to make a few phone calls, so it could take me a couple of hours." She gives a distracted nod, and then floats away. Is it my imagination, or are Eric's eyes glued to her butt? If he looks much harder, his glasses are going to steam up. Eric and Nell? Interesting.

"It can't be that hard to find somewhere to live, surely?" Callen says, with the irritating air of a man who has never rented an apartment and only has a house because his boss did all the hard work for him, right down to filling out the loan application. All Callen had to do was sign on the dotted line, exactly where Hetty told him too. Mind you, I'm hardly one to talk, because I did exactly the same thing when she persuaded me to join NCIS as the LAPD liaison. Hetty punches way above her weight, and that's the truth.

"Do you want a bet?" Kensi opens her desk drawer, hauls out a stack of papers and dumps them on his desk. "Take a look through these particulars I printed off the internet. And that's just two days worth."

Callen grows pale and I'm beginning to think he's realising just how hard house hunting is. But no, this is Callen, the man who is in charge of the stationery budget. You can practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. "You printed all these off? Here? In full colour?" He would probably say more, only Kensi is glaring at him.

"I printed them off. Here. In full colour. How about you make yourself useful and go dump them in the recycling bin?" I've said it before, but it's worth repeating: you mess with Kensi at your own peril. Callen would do well to bear that in mind.

I just keep my head down. That seems safest, somehow. How come Hetty doesn't materialise and act as fairy godmother to Kensi and I, and just magically produce a house for us, like she did for Callen? She's always popping up when you least expect her, but of course just when we could really use her help, she's nowhere to be seen.

"Sorry. I'm just a bit stressed by this whole thing." Kensi waits until Callen returns from the recycling bins. "We didn't think it would take this long."

"We've both handed in notice to quit from our apartments and we've only got two weeks left." I'm beginning to think that we're not going to find anywhere suitable to rent before Christmas at this rate. "Still, I guess if we're desperate, we could move in with you, Callen?"

If he'd gone pale before, Callen is now positively ashen. "I'd love to have you, only it won't be possible."

Really? Now that's interesting. Don't tell me Callen's gone and got himself a girlfriend – at last? It's about time. "Don't worry, we won't cramp your style," I assure him.

Now, I wouldn't have believed a man could go from sheet white to bright red quite so quickly. Callen has to gulp twice and then clear his throat before he trusts his voice. "It's not that. It's more that, well – I'd be scared to go anywhere in my own house, because you two would probably be… well, you know."

"Talking?" Kensi suggests smoothly. "Give us a little credit for having some self-restraint, please."

She's speaking for herself, clearly. I have no self-restraint where Kensi is concerned. But I do know when to keep my mouth shut.

"Maybe Sam could help you out?" Callen suggests.

"No way. My daughter is young and impressionable. And I want to make sure she stays like that."

Why does everyone think we're going to corrupt the morals of minors? "What about your bomb shelter? That's private and out of the way."

"I am not living in a bomb shelter!" Kensi turns to Sam in astonishment. "And why have you got a bomb shelter in the first place? Don't tell me you believed all that stuff about the millennium bug destroying society as we knew it?"

"I like to be prepared," Sam says stiffly, so we all now she's hit the nail on the head. Mr Over-Protective is also Mr Over-Reactive. He must have felt so stupid on at midnight when nothing happened. Not to mention a whole lot lighter in his wallet. "I was just looking out for my family."

"You weren't even married back then," his partner reminds him callously. "You're just paranoid, that's what you are."

I wouldn't mind being paranoid, if it meant I had a roof over my head. I wouldn't even mind being paranoid in a bomb shelter. "There was that place we looked at yesterday," I remind Kensi, with a surrepticious wink. "It wasn't too bad." It wasn't too good either, but that's beside the point.

"They wouldn't take dogs," Kensi says flatly and then looks at me aghast. "Deeks – no way."

"We need to find somewhere to live – soon. And it was the best of the lot." Which isn't saying too much. "Monty – well, maybe he could go live with Sam for a while. Or Callen. Just until we find something better." I just hope I sound suitably brave and long-suffering.

"It would be like splitting up the family." I'm pretty sure there are tears in Kensi's eyes. Wow, she's a better actress than I gave her credit for. Out of the side of my eye, I can see Sam and Callen exchanging guilty looks. Excellent. They really do need to show a little more team spirit, after all. What's wrong with putting us up for a few weeks? Callen especially should show a little more compassion – after all, he made a career out of living at other people's places.

"I know. But what other option do we have?" I shrug in a self-depreciating, manful sort of way. We really are a great team. You might even think we've planned this little interlude. Actually, we have - that's how desperate we are right now. Still, there's no denying that we're good. Or bad, depending on your point of view. Of course, it does help that our opposite numbers have played straight into our hands.

"It's like that film: _Who Will Love My Children?_" This time, Kensi manages a poignant little break in her voice, but I think she might just have taken that a step too far. There is laying on guilt, and then there is taking it to ridiculous extremes. That film reference is completely lost on me and it'll mean nothing to the guys either. What man is going to watch a film with a title like that?

Only amazingly enough, it does mean something to them. In fact, it seems to ring a chord in the key of guilty with them, because they both stare down and their feet, and shuffle back and forwards in an awkward manner. Wow. Good move, Kensi.

"I guess you could stay for a while. All of you. Including Monty. But just until you find somewhere suitable." You would think we had fleas or something, the way Callen says this. He gives new meaning to the word 'grudging'.

"No need." Nell comes running down the stairs, brandishing a piece of paper triumphantly. "I think I might just have found the answer to your prayers."

"Really?" I always thought there was more to Nell than meets the eye, and this just confirms it. Clearly she has some very good contacts indeed.

"Let me see." Kensi scans the particulars carefully. "It's in one of our favourite neighbourhoods, two blocks from the ocean and we can afford it."

"Seriously?" When something sounds too good to be true, it usually is, in my experience. Only it does seem perfect. "How come a house with two bedrooms and a garden hasn't been snapped up? What's wrong with it?"

Nell gives me an indignant look. "There's nothing wrong with it. And it's not exactly on the market yet. Which is why you can't see it until evening. The realtor is doing me a special favour."

"This evening?" I can see Kensi doing mental calculations. "We might just manage it, Deeks. If we sign the papers tonight, or tomorrow at the latest."

"If it's the right place," I remind her. "And if they take dogs."

"They take dogs," Nell says with utter certainty.

It might be my imagination, but is there a note of complacency in her voice? For some reason, I've got a feeling there is more to this than meets the eye. But then beggars can't be choosers, can they?: And right now, we've got nothing to lose.

* * *

><p>"Pinch me," Kensi commands.<p>

"Yeah, right." While her butt is eminently pinchable, I'm pretty certain that would earn me a slap around the jaw.

"No, seriously. Because I must be dreaming. This can't be it. Can it?"

She's got a point. We've just drawn up outside a seriously nice house, in a quiet street. "It's the right address. Maybe they got the rent wrong?" Looking at the house I reckon the owner could get twice they're currently asking. There has to have been some mistake.

"Probably." Kensi heaves a world-weary sigh. "Well, we're here now, so we might as well go and have a look."

The setting sun is turning the windows of the house a deep gold as we walk up to the front door. The house is newly painted and well-maintained. I'm struggling to find a single thing wrong with it, apart from the fact that this is too good to be true.

"I love it already," Kensi declares, in tones of deepest despair. "I mean, it's even got a porch. And a garage."

"A two car garage," I feel duty bound to point out. And it even looks big enough to have room for my surfboards and my skateboards. Life holds no more. This is torture. No, it's worse that than – it's cruelty to dumb Deeks's. "There's got to be a catch: like it's contaminated by Radon gas, or it used to be a CIA safe-house. Or it's already been rented."

Before I can ring the bell, the door opens. "Ms Blye and Mr Deeks? I've been expecting you. Why don't you come on in?"

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Taking a deep breath, we go inside and prepare to have all our dreams shattered. There's nothing like a little ritual humiliation to make you feel really crappy about yourself. I've got a nasty feeling that we're going to be taking Callen up on his somewhat less than wholehearted offer of accommodation. And then there were three… no, make that four. We might have been kidding them on earlier today, but Monty is definitely non-negotiable. I really would rather sleep on the streets that give him away.


	33. Chapter 33

As we go inside, Kensi slips her hand into mine, gripping on tightly. I notice her fingers are chilly. "It's only a house," I whisper, not wanting her to set too much store by initial impressions.

"No, it's not. It's the house. Our house. Our dream house."

And she is right. This is definitely it: walking inside the house is like coming home and my heart sinks down into my boots. It would be hard to find a more perfect house. I know that we could be happy here: we could build our life together here. I've never wanted anything quite so badly in my whole life.

"The current owner has done some extensive remodelling," the realtor says. She's in her mid-forties and looks slightly harassed, like she's not been doing this for too long, otherwise surely she'd realise what a great piece of property this is. The minute word gets around, people are going to be lining up around the block to rent it.

"So I see." Kensi looks around, taking in the large open space that's been created by getting rid of all the interior walls that once divided the living and dining rooms from the kitchen, so that one whole side of the house is completely open, creating a large space that gives a clear view from front to back, where French windows open out onto an enclosed garden. It is so fucking perfect that neither of us can actually say anything.

"And the kitchen's completely new, " the realtor says eagerly, like we can't see that for ourselves. The poor woman doesn't realise she doesn't have to sell the house to us – it's doing that all by itself.

We just nod, standing there, looking around and knowing there is some huge mistake. We can never afford somewhere like this, with all these brand new hard wood floors, the fieldstone fireplace and the kitchen fitted out with state of the art stainless steel fixtures, wooden cabinets that echo the flooring and marble work tops. There's even a built in coffee maker, for crying out loud. We have slipped into some alternate reality.

The realtor pushes her hand through her hair, and smiles nervously at us. "And then there are two bedrooms and a bathroom over here. That's all new too. With a power shower."

"No jacuzzi?" I ask, only half joking. This place couldn't be more perfect if we'd written down all our fantasies and posted them off to Santa Claus.

"I'm afraid not. Is that a problem?"

I almost feel sorry for her. She's not going to last very long in this cut-throat world. The bedrooms are great – with the master situated at the back of the house, with another set of French doors leading out onto a deck that stretches across the whole back of the house, and then leads down into the garden, which is saturated in the golden light of dusk.

"There's no problem. None at all," Kensi assures her. "It's a great house. In fact, it's just what we've been looking for." I think she might be on the verge of tears.

The lady looks so relieved that for one minute I almost think she might hug us. "So you like it?"

"We like it." I squeeze Kensi's hand very hard, so that she doesn't say anything more. There's no sense in getting our hopes up any higher than they already are. "And pets are okay? We've got a dog, you see." There has to be some mistake here, after all. Only now I'm almost certain that Monty isn't going to be a problem. Or indeed that there aren't going to be any problems at all, because this house is meant for us.

"Dogs are fine," she assures us. Funnily enough, I had a feeling she was going to say that.

"And the rent?"

"Is it too high? My client is willing to negotiate. For the right couple." Okay, she's given the game away.

"The rent's fine. We're the right couple," Kensi assures here eagerly, completely missing the realtor's telling slip of the tongue. "We're both federal employees, and very reliable. And the rent is fine," she repeats." Little does she know we don't have to sell ourselves, even if we would both sell our souls for this house. It was ours before we even got here.

I'm glad Kensi is doing the talking, because I'm lost for words. Like I said, this is far too good to be true. Things like this do not happen. Unless… the more I think about it, the more suspicious I become. It was just a little too convenient the way that Nell just happened to know someone who happened to know about this house suddenly appearing on the market. And the fact that Hetty was conspicuous by her absence just about confirms it. As I know to my cost, Hetty is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Nothing happens in OSP that Hetty doesn't know about. Heck, she probably knows that I'm wearing my David Beckham specials today. She really should have been called Macavity.

"And we love the house, don't we?" Kensi is sensing that I've got a few doubts. Her whole body is tense, like she thinks I'm going to ruin everything.

"We love the house," I confirm and Kensi looks as if all her Christmases have come at once.

What's not to love, after all? This is being handed to us, all gift-wrapped, shiny and new. And I know exactly who the mysterious benefactor is. After all, Hetty has got more houses than most of us have overcoats. Some she lives in and others, it would appear, she rents out. So she wants to rent this house to us? Fair enough. She knows us, knows we're reliable (apart from my slight tendency to be accident prone) and although she would rather snog Leon Vance than admit it, I know she thinks of us as rather more than employees. We're not just her team, we're her family. And families help each other out. That's something I'm coming to realise, and it feels good. We havn't asked her to do this – this is something Hetty wants to do and it would be churlish to turn it down. Not to mention completely crazy and the quickest way to having my death certificate signed, courtesy of Kensi.

"So you'd like to take it?"

"We would." The words fly out of Kensi's mouth before the realtor has stopped speaking. If she had the papers to hand, I reckon Kensi would have snatched them out of her hand and signed there and then, just to make sure. As it is, we exchange details and the realtor makes arrangements to have everything couriered over to us tomorrow.

"I can't believe this is really happening." Kensi has wandered back into the main room, and is standing looking around in awe. "We're really going to live here." And then she leaps up into the air with a sharp exclamation, rubbing her butt at the same time.

"I was just pinching you. Like you asked me too – remember?" I remind her.

"That was then and this is now."

"And we are what we are?"

Kensi breaks into a smile when I say this, and I know she's thinking back to a time when neither of really knew what we felt – except confused. Only that was a very long time ago, when we were different people. Now we're a couple. We might even be Densi.

"We are. And we're happy, right?"

"Definitely." In fact, I'm so damned happy I pick her up and swing her around.

The realtor stands at the front door, giving us what can only be described as an indulgent smile. "I think you'll both be very happy here. And Monty too." That settles it. I know I've not said his name, and neither has Kensi. But I don't want to give the game away, so I let it pass without comment and Kensi is far too high to even notice that little slip.

Once we're all outside and have said our goodbyes, I wait until the realtor has got into her car and then walk over and lean in through the window. "By the way – tell Hetty she really shouldn't have done this, will you?"

She gives me guarded look. "I've no idea what you're talking about."

"Yeah, I know. But tell her all the same, okay?"

Hey, my mom might have had a lot of faults, but she did bring me up to be polite and to say 'please' and 'thank you'. And I know just how much I owe Hetty – not just for this house, but for pretty much everything in my life right now. I was drifting along like some kind of gypsy boy until she found me and brought me home. That woman has turned my life around: she's given me a new purpose, a new partner and now she's giving me a future. Somehow, I need to find a way to thank her.

"What was that about?" Kensi asks when I get into the Porsche.

"I was just thanking her for showing us the house so late on."

The engine purrs into life and once again the blood rushes just a little faster through my veins. I'll never take driving this car for granted, even if it has spoiled me for all other vehicles. It was almost worthwhile getting shot to get the Porsche. Now all I have to do is to try to persuade Hetty to upgrade Kensi's current car. She's worth so much more than a soccer-mom SUV after all. What she really needs is something sleek and sexy, and that packs one hell of a punch. I know, that's typecasting, isn't it?

* * *

><p>I call Hetty early next morning. "We need to talk."<p>

"Do we?" She does love to answer a question with a question, bless her heart. But I'm not going to give anything away – not just yet.

"I think so. How about we meet at your place - the one I was at before?" I'm careful to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

"I'll need an hour before I can meet you." She's playing for time.

"That's fine." I end the call, and try not to grin too hard. It couldn't be more perfect. An hour gives me just enough time to make my purchases.

"You're up to something, aren't you?" Kensi asks suspiciously. She's overheard my end of the call, but she has no idea who I was speaking to.

"I might be."

She gives me a searching look. "It's not something dangerous, or that's going to get you into trouble, is it?"

God, I hope not. Hetty might be small, but she's deadly. "Of course not," I say, with a confidence that might be completely misplaced. Still, a man's got to do what a man's got to do.

Kensi doesn't look as if she entirely believes me. "Be careful."

That's actually very good advice. "I will be."

It's almost exactly ten o'clock when I pull up outside Hetty's house, which is huge and impressive. I can't help thinking that she must need a small army of people to keep this place and the gardens in order. The lady has some serious money behind her. That must be nice… Not that I'm ever going to find out, of course. As the car wheels crunch over the neatly raked gravel driveway, the front door opens and Hetty walks out to meet me.

"Nice house," I say, with a casual nod of my head.

"It is," she agrees warily, like a chess player trying to gauge her opponent.

"We like the house we saw last night," I say, by way of an opening gambit. "It's just right for us. In fact, it's almost as if the owner knew us."

"Isn't that remarkable?" Just the merest hint of a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

"Quite remarkable. Whoever she is, she's a good person. We were getting pretty desperate, you know?"

"I've found that something usually turns up when one is least expecting it."

"Something – or someone?" I ask her. I don't believe in fairy godmothers, but I am prepared to think of Hetty as our very own guardian angel, right here on earth. She saved me from myself when she brought me into NCIS. God knows where I'd be right now if it wasn't for her.

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. All the matters is how things turn out in the end, I guess."

"And how have they turned out, Mr Deeks?" She knows we are talking about more than the house. We're talking about my life.

"You turned everything around, the day you made me sign those papers, you do know that, don't you?"

"Anyone listening to you would think I coerced you," Hetty chides gently, even though we both know she didn't exactly give me a choice. And as things turned out, she was quite right. Sometimes I'm too stubborn for my own good and I needed a dose of reality, in the form of a small but forceful woman to make me wake up and smell the coffee.

"How about we settle for the fact you were just acting in my own best interests? Even if I didn't quite know it at the time."

"LAPD was no place for you." She says this with complete conviction and I wonder just how much she knows about my time there. Too much, probably. Not that it really matters any more. That was then and this is now, and I'm a different person. Thanks in a large part to the interference of one Henrietta Lang.

"You're probably right. Sometimes I swear that I think you can read my mind, Hetty. Or maybe I should just give you my hand and you can read my palm and tell me the future?"

For some reason I actually stick out my hand, and she takes hold of it, smooths back my fingers and regards the lines gravely.

"I see a long life, and a happy life," she eventually pronounces. And you know something? I think I believe her.

"You didn't have to do that, you know? The house, I mean."

"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," Hetty says stoutly, but her eyes are sparkling.

"Yeah, right. And if you hold a guinea pig up by the tail, its eyes drop out." I grin down at her. "But I do appreciate it. Really."

"Sometimes one can have too many possessions, and they can serve to weigh you down," she muses.

"I hope this isn't going to add to your burden then." I reach into the car and pull out a carrier that's been sitting in the footwell of the passenger seat. "I wanted to get you something, just to let you know how much I appreciate what you did." Hell, that didn't come out right.

"You didn't need to do that – but thank you." She takes hold of the bag and clutches it to her chest.

"I know. But I wanted to. It's not much, but I just wanted to say 'thank you'. For caring." And I'm going bright red, I know I am. I'm standing in the middle of Hetty's driveway, and I just know that even the tips of my ears are burning and that she can probably feel the heat radiating off me.

"Nevertheless, it is very kind of you. And it means a lot." And now she is blushing too, so this seems as good a time as any for her to delve into the bag and pull out her gift. "Oh my."

"It's a Japanese maple," I say, probably superfluously. Looking around me, it's clear that Hetty probably knows more about plants than I do about surfing. Don't ask me why I picked on a bonsai tree as a gift, but maybe it was something to do with the years of artistry, skill and dedication that went into creating something so small and incredibly beautiful. Then again, the glazed pottery dish it is sitting in is almost exactly the colour of Hetty's eyes. Anyway, I saw it and I thought of her. I just hopes she likes it.

"It's beautiful." She strokes the leaves of the little tree with something approaching reverence. "And it was very thoughtful of you. Very thoughtful indeed. There's hope for you yet, Marty Deeks. If you don't kill us all through worry, that is."

We stand there awkwardly for a couple of minutes, neither of us sure what to do next. If this was a movie, then we'd probably hug – but I'm not going there and, thank God, neither is Hetty. So I shuffle from one foot to the other, ruining her neat gravel and she looks down at the maple tree, until the silence gets so tense that I simply have to break it.

"I guess I'd better be going into work now."

Hetty puts her head to one side. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Please tell me she doesn't want me to kiss her? "Uh – am I?" Behind my back I've got all my fingers crossed.

"It's Saturday, Mr Deeks." Hetty turns sharply on her heel and walks back to her house, holding the bonsai out in front of her. "Do have fun with your furniture shopping, by the way."

One of these days, I will get the last word in a conversation with Hetty. One of these days – but I'm betting it won't be any time soon. That's just the way things are. And do you know what? I wouldn't have them any other way. Well, except for the shopping part, of course. Shopping and men are mutually exclusive concepts. It's just that women don't seem to understand this basic fact of life.

Just as I'm getting into the car, a small grey cat comes and intertwines itself around my ankles, in that cunning way cats do, trying their best to make you fall over and break your neck while pretending to be affectionate. I reach down to pet it and notice a name tag on its collar, with a single word on it: Macavity.

I'm still laughing as I accelerate down the drive and out of the gates.


	34. Chapter 34

Shopping is not fun. And that is official. In fact, shopping for furniture for your new house is almost as torturous as finding that self-same house in the first place. There is absolutely no need to spend hours debating the merits of one set of curtains over another twenty pairs, is there? Especially when they are all more or less identical. As long as curtains are approximately the right size and aren't completely hideous, then I don't actually care if they are voile or glazed cotton or sack-cloth, if you really want to know. The problem is that Kensi wants me to care. No, let's rephrase that: it matters to desperately to Kensi that I not only approve the purchase, but that I actively love the curtains. And I just can't summon up the enthusiasm. It would be different if we were talking about a new TV – but that's only natural. Except that Kensi has informed me we do not need a new TV.

"We could get one of those flat screen TV you can hang on the wall," I suggest. "In fact we could get two, one for the living room and one…"

"We are not having a TV in the bedroom." Can you tell that was a statement of fact, even without hearing the tone of Kensi's voice or the look on her face.

"If I was injured again, I could stay in bed and watch TV."

"One: you are not getting injured again – understand? And two: I know where it would end – with you watching football in bed, drinking beer and eating chips."

Exactly. What could be better? That's pretty much how I envisage heaven - never actually having to get out of bed at all. Except to go surfing, of course. Anyway, that was it as far as the TVs were concerned, and then it was back to curtains. And then the rest of the soft furnishings. I've never had soft furnishings before, and frankly, I've never missed them.. But now I am made aware that our lives will not be complete unless we have these, and that they all contribute to the 'theme'. Since when were houses themed? Did somebody forget to send me the memo?

"Since when did you become so bothered about interior décor?" Kensi's place usually looks as if a bomb has gone off. That time when we were investigating her and her apartment was turned over, it didn't actually look much different from its normal state of chaos. If you want the truth, it looked better. And if I had to describe her current furniture choices, it would be 'late twentieth century Salvation Army."

"I don't want to live surrounded by black leather and chrome," she retorts. "Or that picture you have of the dogs playing poker."

That picture is an ironic statement in the deconstructed world of post-modernism. I've no idea what that means, but it sounds good and I am sticking to it. More to the point, black leather is very practical – it doesn't matter if you spill beer on it, or if a mucky pup curls up beside you on the sofa. Plus, it looks cool and hip – doesn't it? I feel obligated to point out the blindingly obvious.

"My couch is black leather. And it's practically new."

"I know." Kensi heaves a huge, martyred sigh. "And we can't afford a new one, more's the pity. But with some bright cushions, and maybe a couple of throws, it won't look s bad. All we have to do is pick out a main colour and then an accent and we'll be fine. Then we can get the cushions, curtains, table lamps and rugs in those tones."

It's no good. I nearly fell asleep while she was talking. But clearly I have to make some sort of effort here. "How about navy blue?"

I shouldn't have bothered. "You are kidding me, right? You can't have a black sofa with navy blue highlights."

Really? You want to show me where about that's written down? Right now it seems that all I have to do is open my mouth, and Kensi jumps right down my throat before I can speak. Not literally, of course. We're in the middle of a shop, for crying out loud and we do have a little restraint. But before I can say anything, Kensi is talking again.

"Do not suggest plaid. Or stripes. We are not going there."

I shut my mouth again. It seems safest that way.

Eventually, just when I have almost given up the will to live, Kensi settles on taupe and teal as our two main colours. That's pale beige and what used to be called duck-egg blue to you and me. It could be worse, I suppose. And it only took two whole hours. Still, I can live with that. And it is a whole lot better than orange and bubblegum pink, which were her original choices. At least we've chosen the rugs, drapes, throw pillows and table lamps without any major bloodshed. And I managed to veto this chenille throw she was fingering lovingly. I guess the honours are about even so far.

"We need to go to the beds next."

I perk up considerably at that statement. Sadly, it turns out that Kensi doesn't want to go home and get under the covers and have some serious action. No, she wants to look at bedroom furniture instead. Whoopee.

"That's kind of cool." I point to this one bed that's caught my eye.

"We're not having a bed with a leather headboard." Kensi takes a closer look at the details. "And we are definitely not getting a vibrating bed."

"It's a massage function," I protest, but she is having none of it, and drags me off to look at sleigh beds and canopy beds and even water beds.

"I get sea sick." That's a lie, but I don't care. My feet are sore and my back aches and I just want to lie down.

"You're not being much help here."

"Sorry." Why am I apologising? Every time I suggest something, I'm shouted down. "Which bed do you like?" There's nothing like turning the tables around, after all.

Kensi looks worried. "I don't know. There's just so much choice. I did always dream about having a canopy bed when I was a little girl."

Dear God in Heaven. "We are not having a canopy bed," I say faintly. I mean, can you see me in a canopy bed? And will I ever hear the end of it from Callen and Sam if we get one? I think not. On the other hand, I am now beginning to understand why Callen's house is virtually empty. Furniture shopping was a lot easier when I was single and poor – I just bought whatever I could afford and there usually wasn't much choice, which made matters even simpler.

"I didn't say I wanted one now, did I? And you'd look ridiculous, surrounded by swathes of lace." What did I say to make Kensi so pissed off?

"I'm glad we can agree on something."

There we are, standing glaring at each other in the middle of the shop when what we are supposed to be doing is choosing furniture for our dream house. This is supposed to be fun, isn't it? So why are we on the verge of having a major blow up? Great.

"Why don't you just select the beds you like best and then we could try them out?" I suggest after a rather prolonged and uncomfortable silence.

"And what will you be doing?"

Well, actually I'm longing for a triple shot of tequila, only under the circumstances it's probably safer just to settle for an espresso. Handily enough, there's a coffee shop just outside the store. Still, I reckon that it's probably best not to mention that right now. Not if I want to keep living, that is.

"How about I go and have a look at dining sets, and pick out my favourites, and then we can compare notes?" That should take me no more than five minutes, I reckon. Ten at the very most. Plenty of time for a coffee and to get my head back together again. "How about we meet back here in an hour?"

"That's not very long," Kensi objects. "I mean, you can't rush buying a bed, can you?"

Therein lies the difference between us. As long as the bed is big and comfortable, I don't actually care a whole lot about what it looks like. "I trust your judgment, sweetheart." And with that blatant lie, I escape to the sanctity of the coffee shop. Life definitely seems a whole lot better when you have a decent amount of caffeine in your system.

* * *

><p>One hour later, we meet back up and Kensi has managed to whittle her list down to two beds. Wonders will never cease. And, even more amazingly, they are both the sort of thing I can actually see in my house. Or rather, in our house. That still sounds strange, doesn't it? Our house. Maybe if I say it often enough, I might start to get used to it. One day, I might even believe it.<p>

Our house.

The house we are going to share.

The house we are going to live in together, and make our new life together.

Our house.

No, it's no good, I still can't believe it. Since when did I get so lucky? Putting up with the sheer hell of shopping is worth it. I just have to make a bit more of an effort here.

"Which one do you prefer?" Kensi looks pretty anxious, which is adorable. I'd like nothing better than to test-drive these beds with her. What a pity the shop is so busy.

"They both look good." In fact, they both just look like beds to me. Still, I've got to show willing. "I think possibly this one." I gesture to the plainer one, but I'm careful to be non-commital, just in case she prefers the other one.

"That's my favourite too." Wow. For once I've said the right thing, judging by the way her face lights up. "I think it's the clean lines, don't you? It's classic, and yet contemporary at the same time."

No, it's just a bed, Kensi. Only I'm not going to shoot myself in the foot by saying that, am I? "I guess so. It kind of looks Scandinavian, doesn't it?"

And we all know how highly sexed the Scandinavians are, don't we? So it stands to reason that they'd know a thing or two about bed design. Well, that's my logic. And it's a nice bed. Only I don't plan to spend much time looking at it – I want to be in it, with Kensi at my side. Just to show willing, I bounce up and down a couple of times.

"So, you really like it?" I can tell Kensi really wants this bed. Which is fair enough. I want this bed too. I'd want it even if it was completely hideous, simply because she wants it so much.

"I really like it. And this is the one you want?" Please God, do not let her change her mind now.

"Definitely."

"Then I think we've just bought ourselves a bed."

Okay, that's another thing ticked off the list. And we've only been here for four hours. "Do you want to take a look at the dining tables?" I'm praying that Kensi will say 'no', only the Big Man upstairs has gone deaf.

"I can't wait to see what you've picked out," she announces brightly.

My heart is sinking as we make our way across the store towards the tables that caught my eye on my way back from the coffee shop. I'd got kind of diverted by the TVs and sounds systems en route, you see. "That would be my first choice."

Kensi looks at the table critically, and runs her hand across the top, without saying a single word.

"It expands, so you can seat up to eight people and I think it'll go well with the flooring. Don't you?" There is more than a hint of desperation in my voice. She can tell I just picked out the two plainest ones, can't she?

She avoids meeting my eyes. "And what was your second choice?"

This isn't good. "That one. Over there." I gesture vaguely and watch as Kensi goes over for a closer inspection and then returns to look at the first one again.

"I don't know." Her face is a study in neutrality.

"Don't you? Don't you like either of them?" Looks like I've struck out yet again. I knew I should have taken more time. Except what do I know about tables? Apart from the fact you sit at them. And women like to put fancy cloths on them. For me, a table has pretty much been a handy place to fix skateboards on. Only I've got a feeling that's going to be banned from now on.

That earns me a wide-eyed look. "Oh no, it's not that. I like both of them. Again, they've got that simple vibe about them – sort of Nordic design."

"Like that's our signature style?" What the hell am I saying? Real men don't have signature styles, do they? Clearly this place has begun to melt my brain.

"Exactly. I knew you'd understand."

"Of course I understand. It's great that we're on the same wavelength." You lying toad, Deeks. One day you are going to get found out and then you'll be in trouble. Still, I seem to be doing okay so far. "So which one do you prefer?"

"How about we go with your first choice?" Kensi suggests. "You've got pretty good taste. I mean, they're exactly the two tables I would have picked out."

The age of miracles is not yet past. "As long as you're happy with it. If not, we could look at some more?" Hey, I can be as reasonable as the next desperate man.

"I'm happy." Kensi links her arm through mine. "This was a whole lot easier than I thought it was going to be. To be honest, I thought it was going to be a nightmare."

"When we think so alike? No way." Now all we have to do is go pay the bill and try not to wince too loudly.

* * *

><p>"This is really great, isn't it?" Kensi says when we're finally in the car and driving away, the proud possessors of a whole lot of furniture and accessories, but with our bank accounts an awful lot lighter.<p>

"You'd better believe it." Do you know what? It is. It really is.

"I was actually kind of dreading this – because I thought we'd never agree on anything," she confesses. "But I realised today that we respect each other. And that's all that matters."

"There is the small matter of you being madly in love me with me," I remind her.

"That? Come on – that's hardly worth mentioning."

I think that it is only fair that I should point out that at this juncture, Kensi has her hand on my knee, and that her fingers are caressing my inner thigh.

"Isn't it?" I raise my eyebrows, but manage to keep my eyes glued on the road ahead, despite the distractions, namely the fact that her fingers are moving steadily upwards.

"Oh. I see what you mean. And you're right. That is definitely worth talking about. We're going to have to do something about that, aren't we?"

If I play my cards right after we get home, I still might get those TVs after all…

**Five Signs You've Found The Right Partner**

_**Sign #1: You Respect One Another**_

_Respect should be at the top of the list. Respect is also something that should go both ways. You can tell your partner respects you when:_

_*: They are willing to compromise  
>*: They listen to your concerns and feelings<br>*: They notice when something is wrong and ask you about it  
>*: They value your opinion<br>*: They appreciate you  
>*: They are genuinely happy for you when you succeed<em>

* * *

><p><em><strong>Five Signs You've Found The Right Partner<strong> is adopted from **5 Signs he is the right one for you** at mydatingmoment dot com_


	35. Chapter 35

"I can't quite believe that this time tomorrow we'll be in our own house. Our very first home together." Kensi's voice is full of pent-up anticipation, and I can't help thinking that we're like two little kids, lying awake on Christmas Eve, too excited to sleep.

"I can."

Mainly because we are lying on the (very hard) floor of my apartment, surrounded by cardboard cartons crammed full of all my worldly belongings, bar the sofa and tv. My old bed went off to Goodwill this morning and we've spent every single evening for the last week either packing things up or throwing things out. Right now just about the only things left out are this double sleeping bag, our toothbrushes and a change of clothes for the morning. And right now, my back is killing me. I'm well aware that a firm mattress is supposed to be good for your back, but sleeping on a hard floor is taking things to a ridiculous extreme.

"You're missing Monty, aren't you?"

"Kind of."

Like I've said before, Monty is a creature of habit and he doesn't exactly react very well to change and yesterday he started running round in circles before coming to a halt beside a cardboard box containing all our bedding and starting to cock his leg. That was when we called Nell and asked she would like to puppy-sit for a couple of days – just long enough for us to get settled into the new house. I don't think Hetty gave her much option, to be truthful.

"He'll be back with us tomorrow night." Kensi moves carefully within the tight confines of the sleeping bag so that her body drapes itself on top of mine. "Once we're all moved in. Just think - this time tomorrow, we'll all be together again. In our new house."

"And in our new bed." I can't wait.

God, Kensi feels so good. I can feel her warm breath brushing across my face in the darkness, feel the long, lean silken length of her and my hands automatically move to caress her. There is the familiar sigh as she hitches in her breath, followed by a lower sound of contentment that comes from somewhere deep inside me in response. I will never get used to this, to exploring her pliant flesh, to the wonder of her body revealing itself to me, and the fact that there are no inhibitions between us anymore. The rough noise of the zip peeling itself undone penetrates the night and we are free of the bonds of the sleeping bag as it peels itself away from our bodies, like a snake shedding its skin. The evening air is cool, but that's like a welcome whisper across the hot, entangled entity of our bodies as we start to move together, slowly at first as we drift seamlessly into a familar rhythm that is as old as time, and yet made new and fresh once again as all the mysteries of the universe dangle themselves enticingly in front of our eyes for just a single second before the world bursts into a rain-shower of colour and light and threatens to disintegrate completely.

"One thousand and one," I say, some little time later.

"_Arabian Nights_?" Kensi suggests lazily. "Does that make me Scheherazade?"

"Definitely." Well, she's weaved me into her spell, just as the legendary story-teller of the _Arabian Nights_ did so effectively. I probably shouldn't go and spoil it all by telling her I was actually trying to work out how many times we'd made love here, should I? And do not bother telling me I was exaggerating with my estimation – sometimes we all need some scope for artistic license.

"Does it feel strange to you? That we're just about to take this huge step forward?" Kensi raises herself up onto her elbows and stares down at me intently.

I'd noticed how she'd hesitated before signing the legal papers for the house. It was just for a second, but there was definitely a pause, during which time Kensi had taken a deep lungful of air before composing herself and scrawling her signature with rather more force than was strictly necessary. Even so, it was even less legible than normal, if that's possible. Handwriting came a poor second in the Blye household to stripping down a gun blindfolded.

"No," I say firmly, so there is no room for any doubt concerning how I feel about all this. "It doesn't feel strange at all. It feels completely right."

The tension seeps from her body, and she subsides down again, her breasts soft and welcoming against my chest. "Oh good. It's just that… well, you know."

"I know that everything is going to be great, baby girl. This is you and me. Together we can do anything." I know she's not really questioning anything, but that she just needs to be reassured that we are in this together. Which we are, all the way. I stoke her hair and wonder yet again at the miracle that we are together.

The familiar gesture seems to free her thoughts. "It's like the whole world's just waiting for us, isn't it? And that's exciting, but it's kind of frightening too."

Six months ago, Kensi would have pulled her toenails out with her teeth before she'd admit any sort of weakness to me. But that was then and this is now. Back then we were fighting against the inevitable, pushing one another away whenever we got too close. And now – now we are. We are what we are. We just are – and ever more will be, I hope. I might even pray, if I could remember how. Maybe I should start again? After all, if I forget to pray for the angels, then the angels might forget to pray for us.

"There's nothing to be frightened of." I stroke the hair back off her face, and Kensi's mouth nuzzles at the crook of my neck, unerringly finding that exact spot that drives me crazy. She knows me so well. She knows me inside out.

After a while, we get our minds back on track. "It's just that it's been a long time since I did all this couples stuff, you know?"

Oh, I know. "Since Jack, you mean."

Jack. Bloody Jack. The man who walked out on my girl, and broke her heart. Really, I suppose I should thank the man, because if he was still around, then I wouldn't be lying here with Kensi, but in reality I just want to punch his lights out, tear out his liver with my bare hands and feed it to him in little tiny pieces. And then lock him in a very small, airtight room with Monty when he's having one of his especially gassy periods. Nobody hurts Kensi like he did and gets away with it. It doesn't matter that Jack's actions have indirectly led to us getting together, because the point is that he hurt my girl. He broke her heart and made her doubt herself and for that I will hate him until his dying day.

"Since Jack," she confirms. "Only I was so young back then. I think I was almost flattered when he asked me to go out with him. He was a lot older than me, and this big, tough Marine."

Kensi rolls off me, and onto her back. It feels as if she is a million miles away, both literally and figuratively.

And now you're with this idiot cop, who manages to knock himself out all the time, I think, but for once I manage to bite my tongue, so that I don't actually say anything. I'm learning, you see. It's taken a while, but I'm getting there.

"Looking back, I think I was more in love with the idea of being in love," she says slowly. "If that makes sense. I mean, I thought I loved Jack – but now I can see that I didn't even know him."

Do we ever know anybody, I wonder? Really know them, I mean. Know all the secrets of their souls, so that we can see the parts they keep hidden away? Am I brave enough to expose all these parts of myself, or am I still too scared that Kensi would run out of here, screaming at the top of her lungs? Can I ever really, truly believe that she loves me – Marty Deeks, with all my flaws and imperfections? After all, it is just possible that Kensi is more in love with the idea of being in love with me than she's actually in love with me, if that makes sense. Maybe I've rushed her into all this? There's a chance this all happened too fast, even if I have been lusting after her since the day we first met.

Still, like I said, I've learned not to speak before I think. And right now I don't know what to think, so I just lie silently, wondering why everything is slipping away through my fingers, just when it all seemed so perfect.

"Jack was like my Dad," Kensi says, while I just lie there beside her, frozen into immobility, not daring to move or say a single word, unlikely as that might seem. I know how much she loved her father – still does love him. "I've just realised that. How come I never saw that before? Of course, now I know that Jack was nothing like my dad, not really – but back then I thought he was. I thought he was this strong man I could rely on. I thought I could be safe with him. Only I was wrong."

The room is filled with her laughter and my head whirls with confusion. Could somebody give me the Cliff Notes please, because I think something got lost in translation along the way.

"You were wrong?" My voice sounds strange, like it doesn't quite belong to me.

"With bells on. I was such an idiot. Living with Jack wasn't living – it was like having the life sucked out of me, little by little. He was an emotional vampire, you see. But you…" Her voice goes very soft. "With you it's different. Completely different. You make everything seem so simple, and such fun. I've never had so much fun since I met you. You made me love again, Marty."

I've noticed that Kensi only calls me by my first name when she's really emotional.

"I'm not Jack," I say feebly.

"Thank the Lord for that. Even I don't deserve a prick like him twice in one lifetime." She dunts me in the ribs with her elbow.

"What does that say about me?"

"Oh, that's easy – you're the one I love. You're the one I was just waiting for, even if I didn't know it." And her voice is so full of certainty that I believe her. Completely.

"How come I got so lucky?" I move so that we're lying side by side, not quite touching, but just staring into each other's eyes.

"Because you're you? And I just can't help loving you. I tried for so long, you see. I really did. But in the end, I just couldn't help myself."

"You're the one I was waiting for," I assure her. It was like the fates just danced us together. "And this is just the way it was meant to be. You and me. Forever. I'll never stop loving you."

We seem to melt into one another, making love as if time has stopped still. She can dance to me to the end of love and way beyond that, until time stands still.

That makes it one thousand and two times, by my reckoning. Not that it really matters, because tomorrow we're going to have start counting all over again. I want to spent the rest of my life loving her, and being loved in return.

* * *

><p>It's a tight squeeze, but we manage to get all my stuff into the U-Haul van, with barely an inch to spare. In a gesture of solidarity, Callen and Sam have already taken Kensi's stuff over to the new house. Either that or Hetty has issued one of her infamous dictats. It's a funny feeling, shutting the doors and knowing that my life is all packed up in boxes inside the van. My old life, that is. Some of it I am taking with me, but there is a whole lot that I've let go off, because it just doesn't matter anymore. The future is what we decide to make of it, and neither of us feels the need to be weighed down by the past any more. Tomorrow has become today, the time is ripe and we're ready to take hold of life with both hands.<p>

"Ready?" I look at Kensi and she returns my gaze steadily.

"Definitely."

"Do you want to drive?" I dangle the keys invitingly. Now, I reckon I'm onto a sure thing here. Kensi loves to drive big vehicles: the bigger the better, as far as she is concerned. I'm considering getting Hetty to have a little word with the Armoured Division HQ to see if we can arrange for Kensi to spend a day driving tanks for her birthday present. She'd be in heaven if we can manage to pull that off.

"No way." She puts her hands behind her back and shakes her head emphatically.

"Really?" Is she being serious? Has someone taken my girlfriend away during the night and replaced her with a doppelganger? With any luck, this one will be equally highly sexed, but rather more domesticated.

"You drive the truck," she says sweetly. "I'll take the Porsche. I want to arrive at my new house in style."

Foiled again. You would think I'd learn by now, wouldn't you? Still, I've got one last card tucked up my sleeve. "Fair enough. I'll see you there then." I climb into the truck and shut the door behind me. "Last one there's a loser, by the way."

"That heap of junk versus the Porsche? See you there, Loser." I love the way she's not afraid to share her feelings with me.

"You're forgetting one thing." I start up the van. "The car keys are still upstairs in the apartment. Be sure and lock up behind you, okay? Oh, and don't forget to drop the keys off at the landlord's on the way, and get my deposit back, will you?"

And with that, I drive off. It pays to think ahead, you see. I kind of had a sneaking suspicion she'd try to pull a fast one on me. It's a good thing I can't lip-read, because I'm pretty sure what I see Kensi mouthing at me in the rear-view mirror is unprintable. As things turn out, Kensi is barely ten minutes behind me in arriving, only of course I make out like it's been a lot longer.

"Did you take the scenic route?" I ask conversationally. Come on, at least I didn't call her a loser, which proves I've acquired some tact and diplomacy, I think.

She ignores that witty sally and peers into the van. "You've not exactly done very much in the way of unloading, have you?"

"I was waiting for you."

"Do I look like a power-lifter?"

"That's not the sort of lifting I had in mind." I pick her up in my arms and stride up path, like I'm some big movie-hero. Come on, give me a break. There are very few times in life when you can make a grand, romantic gesture like this and I'm not about to let this one pass. "Welcome home, Kensi."

Her arms are around my neck and we're kissing as I step across the threshold. Talk about starting off as we mean to continue.

"Do be careful, Mr Deeks," Hetty chides. "If you don't look where you're going, you could trip and have another nasty accident. At least open your eyes."

"Marty never opens his eyes when we kiss," Kensi informs her.

How does she know that? Has she peeked or something?

"Put the woman down, Deeks. You've got the rest of your lives to snuggle."

The world has officially ended. Sam Hanna has used the verb 'to snuggle'. I never thought I would live to see the day, and that's the truth.

"You're just jealous," I say, adjusting Kensi's position slightly. She's heavier that she looks, you know and my left shoulder feels like it's starting to slip out of joint.

"Why would Sam be jealous when he has me?" a voice asks, and a woman emerges from behind him. Given that Sam is very large, there is the distinct possibility that he could have an entire platoon of Marines tucked away in his shadow. Still, they'd make short of unloading the U-Haul.

"You must be Mrs Hanna," Kensi exclaims, and slides down to the ground. Thank God. My arms were going numb and I think I might have herniated a disc in my back.

"Call me Rosie," she says and smiles at us. "And you two must be the infamous Kensi and Deeks. Sam's told me so much about you both."

Much to my surprise, Rosie seems completely normal – in other words, she's nothing like I'd pictured (i.e. deeply scary). I'm just about to tell her that I wished I could say the same, only Kensi stands on my foot, really hard. Excellent. If today goes on like this I'm going to be in pieces by this evening.

"Has he really?" Kensi smiles warmly and Sam starts to look worried. "How about you tell me all about it and we'll let the guys get on with the heavy work?"

Well, we may as well start off as we mean to go, I suppose.

"You heard the lady," Sam says to me, in a manner that suggests he knows better than to even attempt an argument. There's no doubt who rules the roost in the Hanna household. I bet his daughter has Sam wound round her little finger too. No wonder he feels the need to be so aggressively macho at work, because I get the definite impression that Sam is firmly underneath Rosie's thumb. That's just the way it is with us guys: we like to act tough, but when it comes right down to it, we do what our ladies say. It's easier that way. And you can save your energies for the things that really matter. Like flat-screen TVs. Only I lost that battle (sorry – discussion), didn't I?

As we go outside to start unloading the van, Hetty fixes Callen with a beady glare. "What are you waiting for, Mr Callen? Victory?"

Correctly judging that no answer is required, Callen heaves a sigh and joins us. He might not be in a relationship, but Hetty has got him exactly where she wants him.


	36. Chapter 36

"This is the beginning of the end of life as you know it, Deeks," Callen grumbles. He soon subsides when Sam dumps an especially heavy box into his arms.

"Not necessarily." Of course it isn't. It's more like the end of the beginning. And now I'm moving to the next phase. Not all of us want to stay stuck in the past, you see. Right now building this relationship and building our home together is the most important thing in my life.

"He doesn't have a clue," Sam whispers. "About what really matters in life." I'm getting the distinct impression that behind his own front door Sam is a devoted family man.

"Tell me about it." We exchange conspiratorial smiles. Right now it is Sam and I against the world and that feels good. Callen doesn't know what he is missing.

"You've got to work at it, though," he continues. "And sometimes it's harder work than you could ever imagine. It's worth it, thought. You can trust me on that."

"I do."

Because against all the odds, Sam has managed to make his marriage work. Somehow he's found that balance. Any little tips he can give me will be gratefully received. I'm under no illusions that this is going to be easy: Kensi and I are two mature (okay, maybe that is stretching the point slightly as far as I'm concerned) individuals with strong wills, and we have been known to have the occasional difference of opinion.

Sam eyeballs me. "And you do realise, that if you ever hurt Kensi, I will hunt you down and kill you?"

"I know." I'd probably kill myself if I ever hurt her, that's how much I love Kensi. I've seen what Jack did to her, after all. I don't ever want to make her unhappy and I think Sam know that. He definitely knows what it is like to find the one woman who makes this whole crazy world make sense, that's for sure. We probably won't ever talk like this again, but I know exactly what Sam is saying and all the things he carefully isn't saying too – like the fact that he actually quite likes me, even though he die before admitting that. If I was at all sentimental, it would give me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside to know how much Sam cares. As it is, I just settle for giving him a grin, and then we get back down to unloading the van.

"Why do you have so many books?" he moans, knees visibly buckling beneath the strain.

"Because I like to read? Why do you have so many cars?" There is nothing like taking the war into the enemy's camp, after all.

He gives me a sideways look, and then carefully surveys the front yard, just to make sure we're in no danger of being overheard. "Because a man needs a hobby that gets him out of the house." Sam emphasises these last few words and then puts down his box, beckons me over and begins talking in a low undertone. "I've got a complete workshop in my garage. I've also got a recliner, a fridge full of beer and a TV in there. Sometimes a man needs a place to escape to. For hours. Think of it like a refuge, when all the female hormones threaten to overpower you. Only I didn't tell you that. Rosie would kill me if she thought I was telling you this. And don't let on to Callen, whatever you do. He has no idea what it's like." And here I thought they shared everything. Funny the things guys share when they find themselves in the same situation – i.e. helplessly in thrall to a woman and loving every minute of it.

"I won't," I assure him. Some things are sacrosanct, after all. Funnily enough, I'd been thinking about installing some racks for my boards in our garage, and maybe a workbench so I can do running repairs on my skateboards. That has now gone up from a possibility to a definite 'must have'. Sam is full of great ideas – the man is seriously underappreciated. "Did I ever tell you that you're my hero?" I'm being totally sincere here and Sam knows it.

"Then why don't you follow my example and shave once in a while? And get yourself a decent haircut while you're at it?" Sam doesn't do emotion, you see. In fact, he actively deflects it. Except when he's at home, of course. I've got the idea that Sam is the kind of guy who brings his wife a bunch of flowers, just because he saw them and he thought of her. Maybe one day, if I'm very lucky, I might just manage to have that sort of life.

As I stagger manfully back into the house, thinking that I might just have overfilled these book boxes, I notice the living room is gradually getting filled up with our possessions. The couch is set before the fireplace, the rug is on the floor and Hetty is gradually filling up the set-in bookcases on either side of it, while Rosie is busily hanging up curtains. It's beginning to look a lot like home already. Eric comes strolling up, power-drill in hand. This is not good. I trust Eric with computer equipment, but power tools are an entirely different matter. There's no telling what damage he could have done to our brand new house. Whose bright idea was it to let Eric loose with a drill?

"Kensi wants you in the bedroom," he announces, before I can say anything. "She's got something to show you."

The smile Callen produces threatens to split his face in two. "What can Kensi possibly want to show Deeks? And in the bedroom?" he ponders out loud. And then winces when Sam hits him in the arm – very hard.

"Close your eyes." I'm just pushing the bedroom door open when Kensi's voice rings out and I halt dead in my tracks.

"Why?" The house is full of people, for crying out loud. I'm not normally the shy and retiring type, but even I have my limits. Especially when these people are your workmates and one of them is your boss into the bargain.

"Because I've got a surprise for you." Does she have the worst timing in the world, or what?

"Can't it wait?" The fact that Hetty is not more than about ten feet away is kind of ruining the moment for me. There's such a thing as charming spontaneity, and then there is utter stupidity.

"No. Get your butt in here. And keep your eyes shut."

I've learned not to mess with Kensi when she uses that tone of voice, so with considerable trepidation, I do exactly as I am told. Life's a lot simpler this way, I've discovered. Once inside the room I can hear the door close behind me and then Kensi moves me into position.

"You can look now."

Can I just say that for the first time since we got together I am genuinely dreading what awaits me in the bedroom? Having an (almost) audience within earshot is bound to cramp my style. I might even get stage fright. Up until now I've never had performance anxiety issues, but there is a first time for everything.

"Doesn't it look great?"

I force my eyes open and discover that once again, Kensi is right. Women usually are, in my experience. It just takes us lesser beings (i.e. men) some time to appreciate that. Let me tell you that life is a whole lot simpler and infinitely more pleasurable once you've grasper that simple fact of life: we are usually wrong and they are always right. Anyway, she must have worked flat out because our bedroom looks incredible – the French doors are lying open to the deck and there are these lacy curtains fluttering in the breeze. And the bed – well, the bed looks amazing, with snowy white linen that positively invites you to jump on in there.

"Wow." If in doubt, keep it short, that's my advice. I can't wait for tonight. Or until everyone goes to their own homes – whichever is the sooner. And I won't be keeping it short then, you can trust me on that. It will be prolonged and detailed and we might even forget to breathe at some point in the process.

"And that's not all." There is considerable triumph in Kensi's voice. "Turn around."

Like a man in a daze, I do as I'm told and then almost collapse onto the bed in surprise. "You didn't."

"I did."

She definitely did. There, on the wall facing the bed, is the evidence: none other than the flat screen plasma TV of my dreams.

That settles it. I can't resist any longer, so I jump onto the bed and grab the remote, angling the pillows so that I've got the perfect viewing position.

"Not so fast." The remote is plucked from my fingers. "There's still a lot of work to be done in this house, mister. How about you go give Eric a hand putting up the other TV on the wall in the living room?"

So that's what he was doing. Later on, I must check he's done it properly. The last thing I want is an expensive TV crashing down onto the fireplace and shattering into a million smithereens. Eric might be a computer genius, but has he really made sure it's fixed securely? Wait a minute. What did she just say there?

"You bought two TVs?" Once again, she's managed to surprise me. Just when I reckon I know Kensi inside out, she goes and proves me wrong again. This time she has really surpassed herself and no mistake.

"That was what you wanted, wasn't it?" Kensi shrugs in a self-deprecating way. "And if it makes you happy…" She's got this big soppy smile on her face, like making me happy is the best thing that could possibly happen in her life. God, I just love her so much. How did I get so lucky?

"You make me happy." I pat the bed invitingly. "How about you let me show you how happy you make me?" The box has been sitting in my pocket, just waiting for the right opportunity and this seems as good a time as any. I haul it out and then balance it on the palm of my hand.

"This isn't some kind of joke, is it?" Kensi looks at me suspiciously.

"It's no joke. See, that day we were in Carmel, I wanted to buy you a present. Only Monty came up and next thing I knew, I was back in LA."

"And it's been bothering you ever since?" she asks, with just the merest hint of sarcasm, which I ignore. "Since when did you go for the slow reveal?"

"Originally, I was thinking of earrings," I continue.

"Earrings are good." Kensi starts to smile and then she reaches out for the box, but I snatch it out of her reach. There's something I want to say first. I'm very conscious that I should have planned all this more carefully, but here goes nothing.

"But then I realised that wasn't right. Earrings just wouldn't begin to say all the things I want to say to you." That's when I scramble up on to my knees and I can swear that the blood drains out of her face as she realises what's going on here. Truth be told, I feel kind of giddy myself.

"Nobody makes me happier than you, Kensi. Nobody makes me laugh more than you. I didn't know what love was until I found you and I want to be with you for the rest of our lives. So, will you marry me?"

Well, it wasn't perfect, but I think I got the point across, even I I was sort of gabbling towards the end. This is possibly the first time I've seen Kensi at a loss for words. She is quite literally speechless and just sits there, looking at me, then down at the box and then back up at me.

"Kensi?" I'm getting worried now. There's such a thing as a dramatic pause, and then there's an awkward silence when one person has badly misjudged the whole situation. I desperation I pop open the box, and offer it to her.

"Did you just propose?" she asks in awestruck tones. "Really propose? As in ask me to marry you?"

Exactly which bit about 'will you marry me' wasn't clear? "Definitely. Will you?"

"And you were serious?" Is she avoiding the question or what? Kensi isn't normally quite so slow on the uptake. Unless she doesn't want to get married? I hadn't thought of that possibility. Idiot. I could smack myself of the head, I really could.

"I was serious. I still am." Although I'm beginning to wonder if this really was such a great idea. I was so sure she'd say 'yes', you see. Only it looks like I was wrong. Again. I move the box a little closer, almost in desperation. Maybe it's the ring? Maybe she hates the ring?

"Oh Marty." The tears make her eyes sparkle as much as the small diamond that's nestled in a cocoon of black velvet and catching the rays of the sun. "It's so beautiful."

"I wish I'd been able to afford something bigger." Does this mean she's going to agree? I'm not going to take any chances, and my fingers are trembling as I take the ring out of the box and slip it onto her finger. Wait a minute. Does that count as forcing her into something she'd really rather not do? Why doesn't it ever happen like this in the movies?

"It's perfect. Just perfect." Kensi stretches out her hand and admires the ring with an incredulous look on her face, like this is all some sort of dream.

"So – will you marry me?" I'm conscious that she still hasn't said 'yes' and it's kind of worrying me.

"Will I?" There's a look of utter contentment on her face. "Oh, won't I? Of course I will." And then she throws her arms around my neck. So that's all right then. I guess that means we're engaged.

Put it this way, all my previous inhibitions fly out of the window at this point and it's quite some time before we rejoin our colleagues.

"Nice to see you back. Did you have a nap – or were you busy doing something else?" Callen asks sarcastically.

I give him a condescending smile, still feeling on top of the world and kind of sorry for everyone who doesn't have Kensi in their lives. "Do you want to spell it out for you?"

"No way." He shakes his head emphatically. "I'm not going there."

"Go on," Kensi croons invitingly and then extends her hand. "Just take a guess."

For a moment I think Callen is actually going to pass out on the spot. He just stands there, sheet white and with his mouth opening and shutting, but no sounds coming out. Luckily Sam steps into the breach and embraces Kensi. Then he looks at me.

"You don't deserve her."

"I know."

"I don't do all that buddy hugging."

"I know."

And then Sam just about squeezes the life out of me. Just for good measure, he then proceeds to thump me on the back several times.

Meanwhile, Hetty is very quiet. When Sam finally releases me, I look across and find that she is standing perfectly still, and with one of her trademark unreadable expressions on her face.

"Hetty?" Kensi goes across to join her "Aren't you happy for us?"

She looks up at Kensi and then across at me, but is completely silence.

"Say something, won't you?" Say anything, because this unnatural silence is killing me.

Slowly, a smile breaks out across her face. "It took you long enough, Mr Deeks." Then she looks at Callen. "Five hundred dollars, I do believe. I knew he'd propose to her today."

There isn't a damn thing that little woman doesn't know. And there isn't one single thing I'd change about my life right now. I've got everything a man could ever want.

* * *

><p>It takes us a while, but eventually we get the house pretty much the way we want it. Kensi discovers she has a green thumb and starts to spend hours in the garden, grubbing around in the dirt with Hetty at her shoulder, proffering advice. The woman who previously was quite content to have all her clothes scattered in a wide radius around her apartment is now mortally offended by a single weed protruding from a flower bed and we even install a rainwater tank so that her precious plants can have as much water as their little hearts' desire. And me? At first I sit on the deck and watch, and just wait to be pressed into service until I give up the struggle and suggest we have a veggie patch, which quickly becomes my sole responsibility. Spring slides into summer and guess what? We are gardening – and we're enjoying it. Who would have thought it? Since when did we become so adult and (let's be honest) kind of boring? What happened to the days of going out to clubs all night and then hitting the beach, pretending that I don't have a hangover, only it's a moot point as to which is pounding more, the surf or my head? Those days are past now, and in the past they must remain. Back in the day the young, free and single hedonistic lifestyle was great, but I've been there, done that and now I want more. I want real life.<p>

We've become a couple, and we're developing our own routines. We walk Monty, fly our kite (and Kensi manages to veto all my suggestions about how great kite surfing sounds) and we even go on vacations to places like the Napa Valley, Yosemite – and Carmel, of course. In other words, we are boringly normal. Back home, in the evenings we sometimes sit out on the porch, just swinging back and forward and watching the world go by. And sometimes, if I've been very good, I even get to watch the game on TV in bed, while Kensi pretends to be totally disinterested and absorbed in painting her toe-nails. Sometimes I find me painting her toe-nails more interesting than the game, if you want the truth. Mainly because that usually leads on to our own sort of private games. Life is very sweet.

Only, after a while we both realise that something is missing in our seemingly perfect lives. We talk one evening, only to discover that we both want something more. Neither of us sleep a whole lot that night and now it's early morning and we're lying in bed, watching the thin, pale light of dawn that is dappling the foliage in the garden and listening to the birds singing their hearts out. It's the sort of morning where the whole world feels fresh and new, and you think you should be out there, washing your eyelids in dew to see even more clearly and celebrating the fact that you are alive and the whole world is beautiful.

But we aren't celebrating. Far from it. We are both pre-occupied and we've spent the whole night carefully not touching one another, neither one of us quite sure exactly of what to say.

"I never thought I would feel like this," Kensi confesses, and sits up, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them closely to her body.

"Me neither." This had never figured in my plans. Not ever. But the moment Kensi brought the subject up I knew she was right. It's the next step, if you like. In a lot of ways, relationships are like journeys, and sometimes you reach a point in the road where you are faced with a choice – to keep going along the safe route, or to take a huge leap into the unknown and go down the strange, mysterious path. We're at one of these junctions right now, and we both know it. We can keep on going as we are – or we can do something else.

"I can't stop thinking about it," she continues, only now she is twirling her hair around her finger, like a little girl.

"Me neither." I'm now sitting Indian fashion, facing her and holding onto her other hand, like I need her strength to do this or something stupid. I still can't believe we're talking about this. It seems so unreal, so completely implausible.

"I just feel sort of empty inside."

I don't say anything in response, because I don't quite know how I feel right now. Except slightly sick.

"But it's crazy, isn't it?" she pleads, like I've got all the answers or something. I know nothing. "And just when we've got the house exactly how we want. It's mad to even think like this, isn't it?" It's like she's begging me to stop her, only I can't.

"Is it?" We both know it isn't. We both know that this is what we want. And we both know we don't want to go on like this. "Things change. People change." Just look at us. Who would have thought we'd ever come to this?

Kensi tumbles forward into my arms. "I'm scared. I don't know if I can do this." She's clinging on around my waist.

"Sure you can." Her head is in my lap, and I'm stroking her hair. "And you do know that I love you, right? No matter what happens?"

"But what if this isn't the right thing to do? Or it's not the right time?"

"It's never going to be the perfect time. But it's what we both need. How about we just go ahead and work the rest out when we come to it?"

That sounds brave, doesn't it? Let me tell that I don't feel brave at all. This is pretty much as scared as I've even been in my whole life. I've learnt that I don't have all the answers, but I do know that sometimes life comes right up and bites you in the butt and you just have to do the best you can. I knew Kensi was the one for me right from the start, but now there are other pressures and it's got to the point where we can't ignore them anymore.

"So we're really going to do this?" Kensi is curled up into a ball now and plucking nervously at the sheet, like she's afraid to meet my eyes. I can't stop looking at the engagement ring on her finger and thinking about how we never got around to setting a wedding date. We thought we'd have more time.

"Looks like it." This is the point of no return – it's time to take that leap out into the unknown. I never thought it would come to this.

* * *

><p><em>Slushy plot bunny is in agonies. He's literally rolling about the floor and moaning to himself. I think he's desperately upset about this latest turn of events. It's either that or he's constipated...<em>


	37. Chapter 37

Slushy plot bunny insists that I post a warning here: so be warned. This might not be what you are expecting.

* * *

><p>"You want this: I want this," I continue. "We're both agreed. This is the right thing for us."<p>

Kensi nods, but then she bites her lip nervously. "But a baby, Marty. It's such a huge thing." Kensi stares up at me, like she's begging me to disagree with her, to tell her that the idea of us having a baby together is complete nonsense. Only it isn't. It exactly what I want and what she wants.

"No, it's not. Not to start off with, anyway. Babies are tiny. I reckon a seven-pounder would be just about right. Not too big, not too small. Just right for us."

"You think you're so funny, don't you?" Despite the severity of her words, there's a smile starting to form.

"Not so funny – just mildly hilarious. Come on Kensi – you want a baby, I want a baby. Let's go for it."

"But I don't know anything about babies," she whimpers pathetically, like she wants me to talk her out of this, to say that we're not ready. But we are and it just seems like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And she thinks I know about babies? As if. I'm a man and I run a mile when anyone presents me with a baby and expects me to hold it. But it will be different with our baby, I know that. And realistically, how hard can it actually be? Millions of people have babies and thenthey look at them and realise they are completely clueless. Why should we be any different? One end eats and cries and the other end poos and pees. And it can't be that different from looking after a puppy, can it? Except that puppies are a lot cuter. Babies tend to look an awful lot like skinned rabbits, in my experience. Or maybe my friends have just had extra-ordinarily unattractive offspring? I've usually just inspected them from a safe distance. It's incredible how a small baby can projectile vomit with such force and accuracy.

"So we'll learn on the job. We're absolute beginners, but we can make it up as we go along. The kid's never going to remember if we put his diapers on back to front, is he? Heck, if the worst comes to the worst, we'll ask Sam for advice."

"That's the best you can come up with?" Kensi shakes her head ruefully.

Oh no it isn't. I've saved my best shot for last. "And anyway, we owe it to Monty. It's not fair to have him growing up an only dog."

"Monty is still going to be an only dog if we have a baby," she reminds me.

"No, he'll be a big brother."

"I want a baby, not a puppy, you idiot."

"Me too."

I've discovered that I want a baby more than anything. How come I never realised this before? Or maybe I had, only I'd pushed the thought away and it took Kensi finally mentioning it last night to make me realise what is blindingly obvious. You see, men aren't supposed to get broody, are we? And if by chance we do, then it's something we just don't talk about. Let's be honest, as a gender, we are completely hopeless about talking about how we feel, unless we are with women. Like I am right now. I don't need to hide anything from Kensi, least of all how excited I am about all this.

"So we're really going to do this, are we?" Her eyes are bright and shining, and I'm pretty sure mine are exactly the same.

"We're going to try. And we're going to have such fun trying."

Oh yes, indeed we are. We've got the whole of this weekend to practice, after all. Like I said, life is very sweet. And we're going to have a baby. Well, we're going to try to have a baby. How difficult can it be? We're only doing what comes naturally, don't you know? And sex has always come very naturally to us.

"We're going to have such pretty babies," Kensi whispers and then she starts kissing me. "They're all going to have blond hair and curls and big blue eyes. And I'm going to love them so much."

"No, they're not. Our babies are going to all look like their mommy and I'm going to be the proudest daddy in town. You wait and see." I'm kissing her back, and exploring her body with my mouth and my hands.

"I can't wait." Kensi gives a gasp as I reach downwards and then she is writhing against my hand and we are kissing like it's this amazing drug we just can't get enough of. Love is the ultimate drug after all – the original and best way of achieving ultimate euphoria. It doesn't cost you anything and it's completely legal between consenting adults. What could be better

She can't wait till we've got a baby? Neither can I. Maybe we'll make a baby tonight? Or tomorrow morning? Even if we have to keep making love for the rest of the month, that sounds just perfect. I always knew Kensi was the love of my life, but now I know I want her to be the mother of my children too. Our children. The physical embodiment of our love. That thought just about blows my mind. And then Kensi moves sharply, giving out that half-gasp, half-yelp I know so well and I'm surrounded by rhythmic contractions that actually do blow my. It doesn't get any better than this, because this was meant to be, as surely as if it was written in the stars.

_**Sign #2 Your Partner Is the Right One – Your Intuition Tells You**_

_Your intuition—your gut—should never be ignored. At the same time, it should never be THE deciding factor. Your intuition should serve as a guide, something you rely on when considering whether or not they are the right one._

_Intuition is more than just how physically attracted you are towards your partner. It goes beyond that to a place deep inside where you just seem to "know." It's usually just a sense or a feeling that this person is the right one._

* * *

><p>Making a baby is more difficult than you think. A lot more difficult. Take it from one who knows. It sounds so simple at first and you have a whole lot of fun. But after a while, you start getting worried. That's usually about the time you find your fiancée weeping in the bathroom because her period has come again. I thought that all we had to do was stop using birth control, and all the rest would just fall into place. I was wrong. We've been trying for months and there still isn't a baby. And it is killing us both.<p>

"It's all right," I say to Kensi, feeling completely useless. Even Monty gets into the act, dunting me with his head (just behind the knees, which nearly makes me fall over) and then sticking his nose into Kensi's hand. That's his way of saying he empathises, you see. Dogs know when something is wrong. They might not know what is wrong, but they do know that something is wrong, and they try their best to console you. Each month is just a little bit worse than the month before.

"It's not alright. I'm not pregnant. I don't think I'm ever going to get pregnant." I can't remember her ever sounding quite so despondent.

"You will. We just have to be patient." I pat her on the back, not really knowing what to do. Life just hasn't prepared me for a situation like this. I've spent years making sure I didn't get girls pregnant and the irony of these current events is not lost on me. And I feel kind of let down, which is even worse. I know it's not her fault – this requires both of us, after all. But I'm starting to feel less of a man, somehow. And if it's bad for me, it must be a thousand times worse for Kensi. I've heard women talking when they meet for the first time, and you can bet that within five minutes one of them is going to ask the killer question: 'do you have children?' Women are still defined by their ability to bear children after all. Does Kensi feel a failure because she's not got pregnant yet? Because I've not made her pregnant yet?

"I'm done with being patient," Kensi informs me and then pushes my hand away. "I am not a patient person. But it's not fair. There are girls getting pregnant right now who don't want a baby and we've been trying for months. It's not fair."

No, it's not. It's not fair that we want a baby so badly and we just can't seem to make one. And it's starting to come between us, this vision of an elusive baby that refuses to come to fruition. We stand there for a while, and then I sense that I'm not wanted, so I go and make myself a coffee. I've not got the slightest idea what I'm supposed to say or do, but I'm trying my hardest to think of something. Eventually, Kensi comes through to the kitchen, looking pale but composed.

"We need to buy a thermometer on the way to work."

"Why? Are you sick? Have you got a temperature?" I try to feel her forehead, only she pushes my hand away. Again. It's like she can't bear for me to touch her anymore.

"I'm fine. But now I need to take my temperature, so I know when I'm ovulating. And that's when we need to make love."

Great. Why don't we just mark it on the calendar, sweetheart? And how about we put in on our schedules at work too? Hey – maybe we can download an app for our phones.

"Sure. Why not?" I try to sound enthusiastic and supportive, but I'm none too sanguine about my chances of doing either, far less both at the same time.

What other option do I have? It looks like lovemaking is just about to become a chore, not a pleasure. That settles it. I'm going to go to the doctor and get myself tested. It's quicker and easier if you're a guy after all. And less invasive. It's just slightly embarrassing, that's all. But I can do this. I can be a man after all. And if there has to be a problem with one of us, I'd rather it was me. That way Kensi's still got a whole lot of options open to her.

So, we settle down into a routine of temperature-taking and noting it down on a chart, just waiting for that elusive moment when we have to leap into action. I sneak off to the hospital, where I discover they have some very interesting magazines and get this whole talk about how it can just take some couples longer to conceive and not to worry. So why do they hand me a bunch of leaflets about donor insemination on the way out? Can they tell just by looking at me that I'm firing blanks or something? After reading up about causes of male infertility, I decide that the David Beckham specials are too tightfitting and go back to boxers. I even cut down on coffee, for crying out loud. And in the meantime, we both abstain from any physical contact, unless Kensi is ovulating. In desperation, I start jogging in the evenings and take Monty along with me for company. He loses three pounds before I twig that I might be overdoing things just a bit.

I am becoming obsessed. And we still haven't made a baby.

We make love at the officially decreed times, and then we wait. I am now intimately acquainted with every detail of Kensi's cycle, but neither of us says a single thing when she is late. One day passes, and then four long days of not talking about it, things are getting to the stage where I'm sitting at work one day, staring at my PC screen and wondering if it's too soon to stop at the drug store on the way home from work and buy a pregnancy testing kit. In my head I can see us standing there in the bathroom, counting down and then looking at the little window and seeing the result. And then my phones registers a text.

_Not this time. K xxx_

I look up, and see Kensi is sitting at her desk, staring very hard into the distance, and I know she is willing herself not to cry. I can do no better than to follow her example. It's just that we were both so sure, you see.

This isn't fair.

Everyone has a baby except us, it seems. Everywhere we go, there are couples with babies: pushing them in strollers and holding them in their arms. That night, I hold Kensi in my arms and we both cry. And nobody knows. Nobody even suspects. This is something we only talk about between ourselves. It is our secret sorrow. We thought it would be so much fun to make a baby and we thought it would be so easy. And we were wrong. It could tear us apart, but somehow it's pulling us together.

"I don't just want any baby," Kensi says. "I want your baby. I want our baby."

"Me too. Maybe we need to do something more?"

"Like getting tested, you mean? Just in case there's something wrong."

"Yeah. Just in case." It's no good. I can't keep it a secret any longer. "I thought it was me, Kens. I thought it was my fault. So I went and had the tests."

"Me too, she admits and her voice is muffled, because she's got her face pressed up close against my chest. "I went and got tested too."

It should be funny: that we are both so anxious for it be our fault; that we were both tiptoeing around one another, too frightened to say a word; that we each went through the tests alone and without any support. It's not funny. It isn't funny at all. It's fucking tragic, that's what it is.

"And?" I ask.

"And I'm fine. They said that some people just take a bit longer to conceive."

"That's what they said to me too. Did you get the leaflets?"

"I got the leaflets. All about fertility and artificial insemination and egg donation, and then I got a talk about adoption options too." She screws up her nose. "Why can't they just realise I want our baby? Is that so much to ask?"

Like I said, it's worse for women. So we are both fine, physically speaking, though we're not doing quite so well on the mental front. There's no medical reason we can't make a baby. It's just that we can't actually make a baby. Isn't life great? We're young, we're both incredibly fit and we can't make our bodies do the most simple thing, the thing that ensures the survival of the human race. If there was a race called the Reproductive Stakes, we'd both be left in the starting gates. Do I sound bitter? Good, because I am. You would not believe how bitter I am. We would be good parents, I know that. We'd love our kid, no matter what. I've seen some lousy parents in my time, starting off with my own less-than-stellar examples. So how come they manage to have kids and we can't? You want to answer that question for me? Why can all these people I see everyday manage to have babies and we can't? I just want somebody to tell me why – but there isn't an answer. I know that, and that's what makes it so hard to bear.

"There are other options."

"I don't want any of that, Marty."

"You're sure? Because it's up to you. Whatever you want, that's what we'll do." I've read enough literature on the subject to know that it is Kensi who will have to bear the brunt of any medical procedures.

"I'm sure. Not just yet, anyway. We can always change our minds later on. But I'm fed up with taking my temperature and only making love at certain times."

And sometimes it's not been making love, if you want the honest truth. It's been a means to an end. How did that happen? We've always had great sex – mind-blowingly wonderful sex, but now there is no spontaneity. I have a sneaking suspicion that if we go on like this much longer, it will become a chore, not a pleasure. And that is just plain wrong. Somewhere along the line we moved from making love, from celebrating our love to the physical act of trying to make a baby.

"Me too. Although the bit about you lying with your legs up in the air was kind of great. In a mildly kinky sort of way." Sometimes I just can't help myself, you see. And Kensi does have great legs.

Luckily, Kensi sees the funny side of things. I think we both need to let go of some of the tension that has been building up and this seems as good a time as any. "You're a good deal of a pervert, do you know that, Deeks?"

"Only slightly. And would you really change me?" I give her my most appealing look.

"Can I think about that?" She pretends to do just that, and I pretend to pout. This is the most relaxed we've been with each other for months. "I guess I'll keep you. Just until someone better comes along."

"Fickle creature. In that case, I'd better do something about that."

That gets her interest. "Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. Unless we make it legal. Like actually get married – you know?"

We need something to take our minds off this hell we're trapped in. We need to remember why we want a baby in the first place – because we love each other. If we go too much further down this road, we might not be able to turn back, you see. And I'm not going to let that happen.

"Seeing you put it like that."

"You're going to be a beautiful bride – you know that, right?"

"Of course I am. Because I'll be marrying you."

I think we might just make it. It's not going to be easy, but as long as we've got each other, we can make it. And nobody will ever know our secret heartbreak. When people ask us if we're planning a family, we'll just smile and say how lovely that would be. They tell me it gets easier, over time. I don't quite know if I believe that. But I do believe that Kensi loves me and I know that I love her more than anything. If only we could have a baby then everything would be perfect. Except life isn't perfect and I was a fool to think it ever could be. It was just that falling in love with Kensi made me think we could cheat time, just for one day and that we could be heroes. Only now I know we are just humans, fallible and fragile. This is only a small, entirely local tragedy. It's not like the world is going to stop spinning or anything. It hurts, that's all. It hurts so damned much I could scream my rage out at the world, but that's not going to solve anything. We have to keep going. And we've got a wedding to plan.

* * *

><p><em>Everybody hurts, you see. Life doesn't always turn out the way you think it will.<em>


	38. Chapter 38

We decide that we want our wedding to be small, quiet and low-key, with a minimum of fuss. Yes, I know that it is pretty unlikely that's what we'll end up with, but that's what we're aiming for. Neither of us want a whole lot of fuss and Kensi has seen too many of her friends turn into bridezillas and just about go crazy, stressing over all the arrangements and demanding that everything has to be completely perfect. That's not our style, and quite frankly we just don't need any more stress in our lives right now. So we'll make the plans, and then we'll make some excuse and gather our friends and family together to help us celebrate.

Family in this case consists of two people. First off, there is Kensi's mother, Julia. They've got a strange sort of relationship: loving in a whole lot of ways, but strained and uneasy in others. Both of them have so much guilt about the past and neither of them has ever managed to get past that or the missing years. They both try, but there is still too much between them , and too much lost time that can never be reclaimed for them ever to be really close, like most mothers and daughers. I know Kensi feels bad about that and I'm guessing Julia feels even worse. As for me, well everyone knows that my father died a long time, and I don't talk about my mother. I've got a couple of uncles who tend to cause chaos wherever they go, so it's safe to say they're not going to be on the wedding list. So that just leaves Hetty to represent the groom's side of the family. So she's not a blood relative? So what. She's my next of kin, and that's good enough for me. Sometimes friends are the family we choose for ourselves, and we both lucked out there.

After some discussion, we decided that if we want to live long enough to consummate the marriage, we'd better tell Hetty and Julia. They would probably be really hurt if we don't let them in on our plans, but that's it. We're not telling anybody else. It just seems better that way. And with any luck, Hetty and Julia might even help us make some of the arrangements, because we're both pretty clueless about weddings. Neither of them knows we are trying for a baby, of course, far less that we have been trying to make a baby for nearly a year. Nobody knows. I suppose some people might suspect, but so far nobody has been tactless enough to say anything. So far. I'm not sure how much longer our luck will hold out on that front. And I'm even less sure how we'll deal with the inevitable tactless remark. But who mentions brides and babies in the same sentence anyway?

"I want to get married outside," Kensi declares. "Not cooped up in a church."

"That sounds good to me." Actually, that sounds great. We could fly out to somewhere like Hawaii and get married on the beach. Perfect.

"But not on the beach," she continues. "We're not getting married on a beach. Any beach. And don't even bother to deny that is what you were thinking of."

Okay, I won't then. "Why not the beach?" What's wrong with the beach? I could make this really cool entrance, coming zooming in on a surfboard and then peeling off my wetsuit to reveal a tuxedo, just like James Bond. Come on, it's not only women who dream about their ideal wedding.

"One word Deeks: sand. Beaches have sand. And sand gets everywhere. And then there's the sea."

That's two words, isn't it? Sand and sea? Still, it's probably safer not to mention that small arithmetical oversight. "What's wrong with the sea?"

"I'm not having my wedding dress ruined by sea water when some rogue wave crashes over us."

She makes it sound like we're going to get hit by some tsunami or something.

"Why are you so worried about the dress? It's not like you're going to wear it again."

Do you know, it's always been a complete mystery to me why women spend so much time, energy and money on a dress they're only going to wear for a few hours. What's the point? Only I've seen Kensi gazing at enough bridal websites with a dreamy expression on her face to know that there is no way I can say all that and still hope to be in any fit shape to dance at our wedding. Two broken legs tend to hamper your style.

"Don't be so sure about that." I really don't like that smile on her face.

"You're planning to trade me in for already? We're not even married yet and already you've got your eye on somebody younger and cuter, haven't you?"

"Just quit while you're ahead, okay Deeks? We're not getting married on the beach and that's that. I did think I could have a word with my Mom though."

Oh no. I think I know what's coming next. If I'm really cunning, I might be able to deflect her. "So you can go shopping for wedding dresses together?"

Kensi gives me a withering look. "She has a big house. With a big garden."

That's what I thought. I've got to act fast here. "We're not getting married in your Mom's back yard. Or Hetty's back yard. We're not even getting married in our own back yard, okay?" Is that clear enough? No back yard weddings.

"Keep this up and we won't be getting married anywhere. What's wrong with my Mom's garden?"

"Nothing. I just don't want to get married there." Call me superstitious, but Julia doesn't have the greatest matrimonial track record. Not that I can say that, of course, so I rack my brains for something to say that a) isn't insulting and b) sounds plausible. "I want us to get married somewhere special. Unique. So we'll remember it always."

You want the truth? I'd be happy hopping on over to Vegas, going to one of those chapels and then blowing all the money we would have spent on a wedding by hiring the honeymoon suite in the Bellagio. Now, that really would be something to remember. It's just sad that there is no way Kensi would go for that

"That's so sweet." Kensi looks absurdly touched at this apparently romantic declaration and I feel like a complete pig. A deceitful, duplicitous pig at that.

"I'm a sweet guy." Who is far too good at lying for his own safety. One of these days I'm going to get caught out, if I'm not careful. Oink oink.

"I know. And I trust you to find us exactly the right place. Somewhere special." She gives me an adoring smile.

"What?"

This is what they call getting hoist by your own petard, isn't it? (Question: what is a petard and is it as painful as it sounds?) How come I've managed to talk myself into finding somewhere 'special' to get married? What do I know about getting married? I'm a man, for crying out loud. We're just supposed to turn up on the big day and do as we're told.

"I trust you." She actually pats me on the arm. "You'll find the right place: romantic, secluded – completely special. Won't you?"

I've got a sneaking suspicion I'm being played at my own game. "Like you said, baby girl- you can trust me." I'm going to need so much help here. What do I know about wedding venues? What do I know about weddings, when it comes right down to it? "Only - I think this is something we should do together. Share the experience. After all, this is about us." I put a lot of stress on that last word. I can practically feel a little curly tail starting to grow.

"So you think we should decide on a venue together?"

"Together – of course." I think I've got away with it. Managed to sell it to her. I hope I have.

"Okay. You make up a list of places, and then we'll go and see them together." She smiles brightly, like there is no problem at all. Which there isn't – as long as I can come up with the goods. I'm dead in the water, aren't I? Unless I can think of something…

"You are so transparent, Deeks. I can see straight through you."

That's my girl.

* * *

><p>"Napa." It's so obvious, I don't know why I didn't think of it before.<p>

"Leather or Valley?" Kensi asks curiously. It's Monday morning and we're driving in to work. The sun is shining, the Porsche is purring along the freeway and I have just had the best brainwave of my life. I am officially a genius.

"Napa as in Valley, of course."

"What about it?"

"Isn't it just the ideal place to get married? In one of the wineries, I mean. There's that one we went to last summer, the one with the Spanish style stone buildings, and that courtyard with all those arches and balconies. They were getting set up for a wedding and looked incredible. Remember?"

Kensi clasps her hands together, like some little girl and nods. "It looked incredible. So beautiful. You're a genius, Deeks."

"I know," I say modestly. "It just comes naturally." And then I give thanks to that huge great billboard we pass every morning, the one advertising said winery.

"I mean, that is exactly the sort of place a girl just dreams about getting married in." She looks positively rapturous

It is? And since when has Kensi dreamt about weddings? She's not that sort of girl – is she?

"I know, baby girl. So, you like the idea?"

"I love it. We could go up there this weekend, couldn't we? Have a look around."

"We sure could." I haven't seen her this enthusiastic for weeks – possibly months.

"A weekend up in Napa sounds fabulous. Just what we need."

It does sound great. And Kensi is right: we could both do with a break right now. "As long as you're driving, so I can sample as many wines as possible. In the interest of research, of course. It's important to have the right wine for the toast."

"Typical. The one time you actually want me to drive, and it's so you can get drunk."

"Yeah, I'm only marrying you because good drivers are hard to come by. Not that I'm saying you're a good driver, of course." Because then I'd be lying.

"You're not saying I'm not a good driver either, are you?"

"I wouldn't dare. It's more than my life's worth. Not unless you want to be a widow before you're a bride."

Kensi's bad driving is legendary. Her car is usually in the repair shop at least once a month. It's just that she's rather sensitive about it. That's what they call a white lie. Kensi point blank refuses to admit she's a terrible driver, even to herself and she genuinely looks astounded every time Callen refuses to get into the car with her.

"So I'll wait till after the wedding before I kill you. That way I'll get the Porsche too." She takes hold of my hand and squeezes it. "This is going to be fun, isn't it?"

Actually, I think it is. For some reason, known only to myself, I raise her hand up to my lips and kiss it. Sometimes I surprise myself with how romantic I can be. "It's going to be amazing."

"Absolutely. Do you know, I was sure you were going to suggest we got married in Vegas."

"Come on. Give me credit for a little taste. Who gets married in Vegas?" It's a good thing I never mentioned my idea about staying in the Bellagio, isn't it?

"Britney Spears?"

"That's not exactly a recommendation, is it?"

"Exactly. Which is why I was so relieved you didn't suggest it."

That makes two of us, princess.

* * *

><p>Anyway, what with one thing and another, we're both in a pretty good mood when we walk into the bullpen, to find Callen pacing up and down, like one of these bears that's been kept in too small an enclosure at the zoo.<p>

"Couldn't you be on time for once?" he snaps.

Clearly some balloon has gone up somewhere and Callen is paying the price. He looks like death warmed up. Come to think about it, Callen's been kind of off his game for a couple of weeks now. Maybe he's ill? He doesn't look too good, that's for sure.

"We're actually early," Kensi points out. "And 'good morning' to you too, by the way."

"Is everything okay?" I look around and notice Nell is hovering anxiously on the sidelines, but there's no sign of Sam. "It's Sam, isn't it? Something's happened to Sam?"

"Nothing has happened to Sam," Callen says shortly. "He's just out getting us coffee."

Nell comes over to join us. "Why would you think something's happened to Sam?" she asks curiously.

"Because Callen's acting hinky."

"Are you okay, Nell? You look a little peaky." Kensi has seen the look on Callen's face at my use of the word 'hinky' and leaps in before he can say anything. He's on a short fuse this morning, and no mistake. And Nell looks like she's coming down with the flu. But things can't be that bad if Sam's out on a coffee run, can they? I can feel the pleasure of our plans for the weekend start to seep away.

"I'm fine," Nell says, in a wholly unconvincing voice.

The perky, 'ready for anything' persona is noticeable by its absence. Maybe she's got what Callen's got? Maybe they've both got some highly contagious disease and we're all going to be stuck here in quarantine? I can see our plans for a romantic weekend touring the Napa wineries slipping away before I realise it can't be that, because they've let Sam go out. So it has to be something else.

"Okay - what did we miss? Is Vance paying us a surprise visit or something?" I can't think of anything else that would cause quite so much doom and gloom.

"It's nothing like that," Callen says brusquely. "Just wait until Sam gets back."

"Patience is a virtue won by patience," Kensi says sagely, and it's a good thing Sam's not here with the coffee, or I definitely would have choked at that. "And don't look at me like that, Deeks. I didn't say I _was_ patient, did I?"

"Just as well." I try not to drum my fingers on the desk. "Sam's taking an awful log time with the coffee."

"You should see him on Christmas Eve," Kensi confides to Nell. "He sits there, beside the tree and looks longingly at all the presents."

"That's because you don't let me even shake them." Far less squeeze them. Last year I had to squeeze Kensi instead, which was actually my favourite part of the whole holiday.

"That's because you just want to ruin the surprise. And who's not being patient now?"

I hate surprises. And I hate waiting for a surprise even more. It all generally turns out to be a complete anti-climax in my experience. Like when that present that looked so promising underneath the tree turns out to be a six pack of jockey shorts in the wrong size. Working on that premise, we're probably all waiting to hear that due to budgetary cutbacks we're not allowed to order blue pens any more, or that all paperclips have to be recycled at least four times. I'm just about to crack, when Sam finally comes sauntering back in.

"Did you go all the way to Brazil for the beans?" Callen asks him, before grabbing a double espresso and knocking it back in one gulp. Strange. Callen normally just has a filter coffee, with cream and two sugars. Maybe he's been diagnosed with diabetes? That could explain everything. Apart from the fact he's now shoving a donut down his neck.

"There was a queue." Sam hands round the coffees (including a herbal tea for Nell) and then settles himself comfortably at his desk. "Come on then. Tell us."

"We're just waiting for Eric." Nell fires off a text and then looks anxiously up at the balcony, until her partner in keyboards comes running down the stairs.

What did she say? 'We're waiting for Eric'? **WE** are waiting for Eric? We, as in plural – as in Nell and Callen? I'm beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

"What about Hetty?" Kensi asks.

"She already knows." Whatever the news is, Callen doesn't look happy. He has this fixed expression on his face, like it's been carved out of stone. "This was her idea. She said we should tell you all at the same time."

"Do like the lady says and tell us already." Sam's had enough and I don't blame him. I would have said pretty much the same thing myself, only Sam can actually get away with it.

Callen sucks in a deep breath. "Nell and I got married this weekend. We went to Vegas and we got married."

So now we know what sort of people sneak off to get married in Vegas – our team mates. Nell and Callen. Callen and Nell. Since when was there a Callen and Nell? If anything, I always thought it would be Nell and Eric. Which shows you what I know.

There is a horrible silence, part horror, part shock, that greets Callen's bombshell. We're all wracking our brains for the right thing to say. I have to chomp down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself blurting out 'WTF?' Only I wouldn't be using initials.

"You got married?" Sam says faintly. "To Nell?"

I couldn't have put it better myself. Is it completely unfeeling of me to be pleased that Sam had no idea either?

His partner just ignores him and reaches out to take Nell's hand. She has the strangest look on her face, one that I just can't read at all. "And there's something else you should know: we're going to have a baby."

If the silence was strained before, it's a hundred times worse now. Sam looks poleaxed, Eric looks as if he might burst into tears, and Kensi… I find that I can't even begin to look at Kensi. As for me, I just concentrate very hard on looking at my shoes.

"Congratulations." Kensi leaps into the breach after a couple of seconds. "That's wonderful news. I'm so happy for you both. And a baby. How lovely. Just lovely."

She does a great job. She even sounds genuinely happy for them. Nobody would guess that her heart is breaking. Nobody except me, because mine just shattered into a thousand pieces, right alongside hers. I always knew she was brave, I just never knew how brave she could be. That spurs me into action.

"Fantastic. You're a lucky man, Callen. You take good care of Nell, do you hear?"

I shake his hand, and then give Nell a hug, and they both start to relax a bit. Sam shakes himself out of his trance and Eric pulls himself together. And the not-so-happy couple? Well, now that they've told us the news, they just can't keep their hands off each other. After a while, they even start laughing and joking, telling us all about how they never thought they'd be able to keep their relationship a secret for so long. The stress just disappears from both of them and you can almost feel the joy radiating outwards. And that makes it even harder to bear. Kensi is just a little bit too happy for them, she's every so slightly too loud and too exuberant, but nobody else notices. We're careful not to look at each other. Just one look and we could fall apart. And that wouldn't be fair. This is Callen and Nell's big moment and we mustn't spoil it. They deserve to be happy.

"It wasn't exactly planned," I hear Nell confessing to Kensi. "In fact, it wasn't planned at all. But we love each other."

"That's all that matters," Kensi says, so sweetly that it would break your heart. "Your baby is going to be very lucky to have you as parents."

It's not fair.

I'm happy for them – I don't grudge them their happiness for one second, but it's not fair.

It's just not fair that they are having this baby so easily.

Callen and Nell look so damned happy. Is it so very much to ask that Kensi and I could be that happy too? Apparently it is. All the excitement about our own wedding plans has just flown out of the window and crashed onto the ground, smashing into smithereens.

"Isn't it wonderful news, Marty?" To a casual observer it might look like Kensi's eyes are sparkling with joy. I know better.

"The best." I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her close. "Just the best news ever."

And I mean it. Almost. The only better news would be when we finally discover we're going to have our own baby. If we ever have our own baby. I'm beginning to think that just isn't going to happen.

It's like Kensi can read my mind. "One day," she whispers, her mouth pressed close to my ear.

"One day," I repeat.

If I keep repeating that, I might even start to believe it. One day. But not today. I'm not a superhero, I'm just a guy who loves a girl and who can't manage to make a baby, no matter how much he tries. And it just hurts.

It's not fair.


	39. Chapter 39

_There's been a rather long gap since I posted the last update to this story, due to life suddenly taking a nose-dive that knocked me for six. So many thanks to everyone who PM'd me to check that I was okay._

* * *

><p>Kensi and I deserve to be as happy as Callen and Nell are, don't we?<p>

For the first time I realise just how very much love hurts, how love can tear you apart, from the inside out. All we want is a baby – that's not so much to ask –just an everyday miracle. Oh yes, love hurts alright. Love hurts so much it feels like my head is going to explode right now

Callen and Nell are going to have a baby.

The words keep reverberating around in my head, in this torturous of rhythm and I'm almost certain the forced smile I've got plastered onto my face has all the genuine warmth of an alligator. For years I schooled myself not to let my emotions show, to use humour as a shield, but Kensi changed all that and now I'm struggling. When it was just me, it was easier to push it all to one side and pretend that it didn't matter, but this isn't just about me – it's about us, and our hopes and our dreams. And somehow that makes it all so very much worse.

"Ms Blye? Mr Deeks? If I might have a word?" Hetty is standing on the balcony, beckoning to us, and right now she looks awful like a lifebelt thrown to a drowning man. We both bolt up the stairs, like a pair of puppies who've been cooped up in the house all day and are desperate for a pee. Instead of Ops, Hetty points towards the Armoury. Now, colour me stupid, but somehow (judging by the look on her face at any rate) I don't think we're about to be shot at dawn, which is good. I don't think I could cope with any more bad news today.

Hetty shuts the door behind us, locks it and then leans back against it, presumably taking this triple series of measures so that nobody is going to barge in on us. Meanwhile, Kensi and I kind of retreat to the far end of the room, in kind of a protective gesture. Let's just take a moment and consider this situation, shall we? We're locked into a room that is stuffed full of weapons and ammunition with Hetty – aka the woman who uses a flick knife as a letter opener. And you wonder why I'm feeling just a tiny bit vulnerable? Of course, being Hetty (and therefore utterly unpredictable) she then proceeds to take the wind completely out of my sails.

"I find myself in a rather delicate position."

Under normal circumstances, this is the point at which I would make some humorous remark, but I can't summon up the energy today. The pause hangs heavily in the air, like a thunderstorm that is brewing and about to burst. Oh no, that already happened, didn't it? It went and rained all over our parade. I think this is the first time that I've ever seen Hetty visibly discomfited, because Kensi and I are just standing there, looking at her and not saying a single word, which means she has to leap into the breach.

"I really would be most grateful for your assistance."

"Sure." Kensi actually manages to sound relatively upbeat. The girl is good, I've got to give her that. If she can do this, so can I.

"You going to make us an offer we can't refuse?" I plaster an insincere smile on my face.

"I thought I already did, Mr Deeks. In a bar, remember? You were drinking coffee, if I recall correctly."

Oh yes, I remember. It's not something I'm exactly going to forget, is it? I was sitting there, thinking about Kensi, and how my life was going nowhere. I was at the point where I was seriously contemplating telling LAPD exactly where they could do with their job, then jumping in my car and seeing where I landed up. Mexico was a strong contender, if I remember correctly. Good beer and great surfing is a kind of irresistible combination when you're down in the depths. And then Hetty walked in and in that instant my whole life changed. Damn the woman and her perfect recall. She could probably tell me exactly which pair of boxers I was (or wasn't) wearing that day too.

"The day Deeks isn't drinking coffee is the day I know he's got a problem." I take back everything I've just said about Kensi being good, because now she's just blown it - big time. In the interests of making a baby, I've been trying to cut down of caffeine and substituting soy chai lattes during the day. Yup, that is exactly how desperate I am, summed up in three words: soy chai latte. Don't even think about trying one, because it really isn't worth it. Trust me. And of course Hetty will have noticed the change in my beverage of choice. Of course she will. Because Hetty notices everything. Kensi realises her mistake just a fraction of a second too late, and looks as if she wants the floor to open up and swallow her.

"Sometimes change is good," I offer lamely.

Hetty doesn't say a word. Not one single word and that's when I realise she knows exactly what is going on. I should have realised we couldn't hide anything from Hetty, because the woman quite literally knows everything. And when I put those puzzle piece together, I drop my gaze downwards to stare very hard at the floor, because I don't want to see her look of pity in her eyes. I'd give anything to be able to look at her directly and say they everything is cool, only it isn't- and I can't. There's another of those hideous silences that seem to stretch out into infinity, and way beyond that, like time itself is fracturing and we are caught up in the middle of the implosion, just watching impotently as chaos spirals in a vertiginous paroxysm of destruction. Eventually, just when the silence has stretched so far, one of us has to break. Amazingly enough, this time it's Hetty who talks first.

"I find that I have been somewhat remiss in the supervisory aspect of my duties: namely ensuring that both of you are operating at the required physical levels."

Please do not tell me that today of all days Hetty is going to send us for a physical exam? Over the past few months both of us have been subject to enough undignified prodding and poking to last a lifetime. Stripping down to my shorts and being told to cough really would be the icing on top of the cake.

"So I must ask you both to drive over to Pendleton and complete the standard assault course without further ado. And then the tactical weapons course tomorrow." She composes her face into a suitably sheepish expression.

"Today?"

"Immediately, I'm afraid. And this will require you to stay there for at least two night. You'll be away until Wednesday."

Well, that's going to be a hardship, isn't it? Hetty has somehow managed to come up with a reprieve that not only gets us away from here, but gives us a breathing space. There is the small matter of the assault course, which is rumoured to be hideously challenging, but I couldn't care less if they have now added alligators just to up the ante a fraction further. For the first time since Callen broke the news, I actually feel slightly more positive. By the time we get back, it will be old news. And as for Kensi – well, she's positively wreathed in smiles, but then Pendleton is practically her second home. Under normal circumstances, I have to admit that that Marine base wouldn't normally be on my top ten list of places to go to, being rather too full of square jawed recruits with those disconcerting buzz cuts for comfort (and that's only the women), but it does have two distinct advantages. In the first place, it's not LA, which is a major plus point right now. And then there is the small, almost inconsequential matter of the surfing. Pendleton has great surfing. Now, the beach there is normally restricted to Marines, but if I know Hetty, she can probably manage to swing something. In fact, knowing Hetty, she probably already has. There is nothing like getting pounded by a breaker to help you put things back into perspective. I'll make sure to remember to pack my wetsuit. I'm not so sure if I'll be able to sneak my surfboard out without Kensi noticing, added to which there is the additional complication that the surf-racks and Porsches don't really mix. Oh well, I'm sure I'll think of something. If the worst comes to the worst, I'm sure there's probably a half-decent surf shop somewhere around the base. You can never really have too many boards, after all.

I'm still processing all this information while Kensi goes up to Hetty. "Thank you. For everything."

"For being amiss in my administration duties? I hardly think that is a matter for gratitude." She almost manages to sound brusque. Almost, but not quite. That's Hetty for you: never willingly displaying any emotion; preferring instead to demonstrate her affection through her actions.

Kensi isn't about to let this one go. "Still… You know."

Hetty does something that almost takes my breath away: she reaches out and lays her hand on Kensi's forearm. I've never seen her initiate human contact before. "I do know. And I understand. I understand completely." Just for a second, her face softens and instead there is a look that we both know only too well is revealed: one of raw anguish. I've learnt to recognise the signs during our various visits to clinics: you sit for a long time in waiting rooms and sometimes the other patients talk. So I am certain, beyond all possible doubt that Hetty knows, alright. She knows all about it, because she has been there herself.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, and we're on the freeway, cruising along and trying to make some sense of things.<p>

"Callen and Nell? When did that happen?"

Kensi gives an enigmatic shrug. "I'm guessing at least three months ago."

"I didn't have a clue. Did you?" After all, she and Nell can be pretty tight.

"I _might_ have thought something was going on. I mean, Callen has been kind of withdrawn lately. But I always thought Nell and Eric would be the ones to get it together."

Is it really mean of me to be pleased that Kensi didn't have a clue either? I'm just glad I wasn't the only clueless member of the team when it came to missing what was right underneath our noses. And, for what it's worth, I always thought it would be Nell and Eric too. Only I was wrong, wasn't I? "All those longing looks across Ops, you mean? The way they used to share a keyboard, like they were Siamese twins or something? "

That was the killer for me, because Eric feels about his computer equipment the way we feel about our guns - it's incredibly personal. As for me, I always thought there was too much of an age gap between Nell and Callen for it to even be a possibility, which shows you how much I know. Suddenly what I'd seen as a kind of uncle/niece relationship turns out to be something completely different. Which neatly sums up why men leave all the analysis of relationships to women: namely because we are essentially clueless until we're personally involved, at which point we usually become completely clueless and just do what we are told. Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but you get my drift. We all know who the stronger sex are – in just about everything, except power-lifting. There's a reason why men don't give birth, you know. Only I would if I could. It's funny how your mind always comes right back to the one thing you are trying not to think about, isn't it? Still, I've got the definite impression that this little bombshell has affected Eric every bit as much as it has knocked us for six, only for entirely different reasons, of course.

"Nell and I talked a lot about all you guys," Kensi confesses.

I knew it. All these girly evenings they spent together were basically an excuse to gossip about us guys. I wonder what they said about me?

"And she used to talk a lot about Eric and how he never noticed her. As a woman, I mean. He saw her skills, but not a whole lot else."

Whereas I noticed everything about Kensi the moment I met her. You'd have to be blind not to. Which reminds me…

"You want me to give you a ten minute start on the assault course?" I offer generously

"Why – so I can go get a cup of coffee for you after I've finished, and you are still slogging your way around?" As ever, Kensi puts me right back into my cage, and then locks the door.

"Of course not. Though that would be good. No, it's so I've got something to aim for – the thought that when I finally catch up with you, I can ogle your ass. I've got to have some incentive to complete the course, haven't I? And seeing your rear-view ahead of me is one powerful inducement to keep going." You really think I haven't thought about all this in great detail? While it was great of Hetty to conjure up some idea to get us out of LA, and she had to come up with something on the spur of the moment, the idea of a Marine assault course is not exactly filling me with joy.

"You say the nicest things, you know that, Deeks?" The laughter is back in her voice again. "But if you think I'm going to let some sweaty, stinky man, covered in mud even touch me, far less in front of a platoon of Marines, you can think again. I've got my reputation to think of."

This clearly is not the time to point out that she's going to be every bit as smelly and filthy as me by the end of the course, is it? "You could think of it like a mud pack."

"I could – but I'm not going to."

And this definitely isn't the time to tell Kensi that I've been just remembered reading about this spa near Napa where they do this great couples package, with mud baths, followed by massages. I think I'll leave that as a surprise for her.

* * *

><p>Three hours later and I'm standing wheezing pathetically, soaked to the skin and wondering why this seemed like such a great idea. Okay, the assault course is basically like a great big obstacle race, the kind you did way back at junior school. And I seem to recall that scrambling under nets and over hurdles was kind of fun back then. This was so far removed from fun it might as well have been on the far side of the moon. You see, these military assault courses are basically designed to break you down into tiny little pieces, so that the Marine Corps can put you back together, this time in the way they want. And that, in a nutshell, is one of the reasons I gave all branches of the military a body swerve when it came to career choices: because I don't want to conform – I want to be me, with all my faults. The other reasons were (in no particular order) the pay, the insistence on conformity and the ridiculous haircuts. Now, given that I am currently working for NCIS and have just floundered my way around a Marine assault course, that may seem rather ironic. However, in my defence, I would just like to point out that my hair is still about six inches longer than military regulation length. A fact that did not escape the grunt working in the supply store, who offered me a hair band, along with the set of fatigues and boots she handed across the counter. And without even the hint of a smile. That's another thing about military types – I reckon they have their sense of humour surgically removed, along swith just about every other element of their personality during their indoctrination, sorry – basic training. So I've got a slight problem with authority figures and being made to conform? Get over it.<p>

And getting over it was exactly what I managed do, in terms of that course. Never again though. Once was more than enough. Would you believe that there are civilian versions of these courses? It's mind-blowing to think that some people will actually pay good money to voluntarily putting themselves through this hell. It will come as no surprise when I tell you that Kensi looks particularly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, almost as if she'd love to repeat the whole experience.

"Having fun?" I do make an effort, but I can't quite manage to keep that sarcastic note out of my voice.

"This all takes me back." She gestures expansively and I can't help noticing the nostalgic look on her face – underneath the mud. How come she manages to look so hot, even in fatigues? "Pendleton – the Corps – there's a whole lot of memories here."

"Please tell me you never dreamt about getting married in the Marine Memorial Chapel?" Because that is the stuff nightmares are made of for me.

"Maybe. When I was a little girl. And then later on, with Jack – well, that was the sort of thing he liked. You know – dress uniforms, cutting the cake with a sword."

In other words, all the things that are so far removed from my comfort zone as to be the equivalent of the Falkland Islands - right in the middle of nowhere. I just hope we're not going to take sides and have a bloody battle, like Britain and Argentina did.

"But that was a long time ago. And I also wanted to be a pony and went through a whole year of calling myself Kevin."

Now, I'm going to let that last bit pass without comment, because the whole gender-bending thing has never really been my bag. "Really? You wanted to be a pony? You didn't just want a pony?"

"Nope." Kensi shakes her head emphatically, and some mud splatters hit me on the face. "Sorry about that. No, I really did want to be a pony. I'd spend hours out in back yard, trotting around and neighing, and building these little jumps – poles balanced on paint can, you know?"

Well no actually – I don't. Not exactly, but I can relate. You see, I just spent years dreaming about becoming a super hero, escaping into a fantasy word where no-one and nothing could touch me, where right always vanquished wrong in the end. Maybe everything does always work out for a reason after all? Right down to that chance encounter in the gym, which in turn lead to Hetty strong-arming me into agreeing to work for NCIS, and leading directly to Kensi and I standing right here, right now. Truth, justice and the American way of life… I guess that's what it all boils down to in the end.

"So that's you keep wearing you hair in that cute ponytail then?" And maybe she's got this thing about whips too? That could be interesting.

"Very funny. You're just jealous, admit it."

Now, there have been periods when my hair was right down to my shoulders, as she very well knows, having seen the photographic evidence. Don't ask me why, all I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time. I can't begin to think what Callen and Sam would say if they ever saw those photos. They'd probably hold me down and forcibly shave my head, or something like that. But let's be honest, they're probably just jealous. And, if you really want the truth, I bet Sam spends a whole lot more time keeping that shiny head of his completely hair-free than I do with my hair, which really just does its own thing. With considerable aplomb, or so I've been told.

"Yeah, right. Surfer boy." Kensi look down at herself in dismay. "God, I am absolutely filthy. And soaked through."

"Right through?" Now there is an interesting thought. Maybe I could help her out there? A long, hot shower sounds pretty amazing right now.

Knowing me rather too well, Kensi grimaces at me and waggles her finger. "Down boy. Pendleton. Single-sex washing facilities, remember?"

And that is yet another reason why a life in the military was not for me. It kind of hampers my natural inclinations, if you get my drift.

"Yeah – but there's that great big bathroom back at the hotel. With Egyptian cotton towels and complimentary bath products. Which it would be a shame to waste."

Hetty, may she live for ever, not only booked us into off-base accommodation, but into what can only be described as a luxurious hotel. She was heard murmuring about how difficult it was to get value for money at such short notice, but she didn't fool me for one second.

"I like the way you think, Deeks."

I just like everything about Kensi. I think she's pretty damn near perfect, but then I'm we move off, I notice she's limping, favouring her right leg and trying not to wince. "You okay, Kens?"

"I think I've pulled my hamstring," she admits reluctantly. "It feels a bit tight."

"You know what you need – a long, hot bath and then a massage. Purely for medical reasons, of course."

"Don't tell me-you packed a white coat, along with that wetsuit of yours?"

I should have known I couldn't get anything past her. "You'll feel a lot better after that," I assure her.

"I'm sure I will. And how will you feel?" Kensi actually lets me take hold of her arm and even leans on me a little, which is how I know how much that leg is hurting her.

"Oh, I'll feel fine. Just fine." I assure her, because we both know how that little scenario is going to play out, don't we? Well, it would be a hell of shame not to make full use of all those facilities Hetty's so generously provided us with, wouldn't it?

My boots squelch with every step I take; I've got in places I'd really rather not think about and just about every muscle in my body is protesting, but despite all the crap this day has thrown at us, we're both managing to come out on top. Things can only get better, right?

You might think so. In which case you would be wrong. We're nearly at the showers when this hearty Marine-type in civilian dress does a double-take.

"Kensi? Kensi Blye? It is you, underneath all that mud, isn't it?"

"Jack?" Is it my imagination, or does she sound just a little too happy to see the man who walked out on her?

I want to keep on walking, to drag Kensi away by brute force if I have to. Heck, if I thought it would do any good, I'd throw her over my shoulder and run so fast you wouldn't see me for dust. Only I don't. Of course I don't. What would be the point in that?

It's official: this is the crappiest day ever. No contest, today is definitely the all-time winner, beating that time I shot my Dad into a cocked hat. Funny, he looked kind of like Jack- or maybe my memory is playing tricks with me. Whatever. I don't actually care, because in my book they were both bastards who never deserved to be loved in the first place. It's just that I know only too well how you can't just switch your feelings off, that no matter how much you can tell yourself that you are better off without them, there's always a piece of your heart that pines and wonders 'what if'. Well, it looks like I'm going to find out the answer to that question.


	40. Chapter 40

Another instalment at last! Sorry for the long delay, but I'm struggling with illness at the moment and haven't been able to write for a while, no matter how hard the plot bunnies have been pleading.

* * *

><p>Jack, damn his black heart, actually looks delighted to see Kensi. And Kensi? Well, she's smiling, which if you're Jack, then you might think that's a good sign. I know better, because Kensi is smiling <em>inwardly<em>. It's the smile of cat that has just spied a mouse and is looking forward to having some fun before she pounces. That makes me start to feel a lot better, because if you want the honest truth, I was beginning to get a bit worried there. Correction: I was a whole lot worried. Kensi and Jack had a whole lot of history between them: he was her first love, the man she planned to spend the rest of her life with – until he screwed everything up by walking out. I know she's still got a whole heap of issues about that, things that she's never been able to sort out, until now. They say that everything happens for a reason, so I guess this is karma and I'm just going to have to play along, let Kensi take the lead and follow her cues. I can do that. I can trust her. The question is: can I trust Jack?

"Kensi Marie Blye. Just look at you." And from the way Jack looks at her, he definitely likes what he sees. Well, even liberally bedaubed in mud, Kensi still looks good.

"Jack Eugene Reynolds – just look at you," she returns sweetly, like they're old friends, which I guess they are, in a manner of speaking.

So I do like she asks, and I take a good long lok at the infamous Jack. Quite frankly, I'm taken aback. I'd always pictured Jack as a poster boy for the Corps – chiselled jaw, abs of steel, flinty-grey eyes – you know the type. Kind of like GI Joe in the flesh. But this guy just looks ordinary, and not even in particularly good shape. Sort of like he's let himself go. Plus, he's way older than Kensi. Now, that's interesting…

"What are you doing here at Pendleton? Visiting for old times sake?" Jack asks conversationally.

Is this guy for real? We're wearing fatigues, we're filthy and we're taking the most direct route from the assault course to the showers. The clues are all there, you know and you don't have to be Einstein to work out what's going on. It looks like good old Jackie Boy might just be one sandwich short of a picnic. Which stands to reason, seeing as how he was dumb enough to leave Kensi.

"Standard fitness assessment." I can't help noticing that Kensi is keeping her answers short and to the point. That's never a good sign with her and it usually means she's struggling to hold onto her temper. Kensi in a temper is not a pretty sight.

"So you're still with NCIS?" Is it just me, or is Jack awfully interested in Kensi?

"I'm still with NCIS." Kensi gives a little start. "Where are my manners? What am I thinking off? Jack – this is Marty Deeks."

I hold out my hand and offer up my most wholesome smile, both of which Jack ignores. Okay, so he's short and he's rude. I didn't think it was possible for the man to fall any lower in my estimation, but Jack has just managed the impossible.

"This is your partner?"

Does he have to sound quite so dismissive? Jack definitely interested in her, there's no doubt about it. I can tell by the way he's leaning in towards her, the way his eyes are glinting with what looks awful like anticipation. The man is seriously deluded if he really thinks he can walk out on Kensi and then just pick up right where he left off, years later. At least I hope he is.

"Not just my partner, Jack." Kensi is almost purring now as she snuggles up to me. "Oh no, Marty's so much more than that."

She's practically licking her lips now and Jack looks decidedly uneasy at this turn of events, which gives me an unholy leap of fire in my belly. Okay, I can see how she wants this to play out, and I'm going to take the ball and run with it. And in the process, I am going to give Jack one hell of a run for his money. Hell, if I have to race him over that damned assault course, then that's what I'll do – and I'll set a new record while I'm about it. See, I might give out this mellow vibe most of the time, but when it comes right down to it, I can be a total unreconstructed caveman, thumping my chest with the best of them. I am Deeks – hear me roar. Or words to that effect.

"Deeks. LAPD liaison to NCIS. Good to meet you." This time I don't give the man a choice, I reach out and grab his hand firmly and watch him shudder slightly as my filthy fingers grip around his own.

"LAPD? So you weren't in the military?" Jack gives me a look up and down, like I'm something the cat dragged in. I'm willing to bet good money that his hair has never come anywhere near reaching his shirt collar in his whole life from the reaction he's giving me. This guy is seriously tense. And he seems to have a bit of a thing about dirt. A touch of OCD in there, perhaps?

"I was kind of busy with college and then law school," I announce, in suitably hearty tones, while keeping the handshake firm and then clapping him on the shoulder with my left hand, trying not to smirk too much at the look of horror that creeps across his face when he realises that natty white Oxford cloth button-down now has a large and muddy handprint all over it. Definitely OCD, I decide. "So, you're an old family friend, are you, Jack?" If I put just a little bit of extra stress on the word old, it is purely accidental. As in 'accidentally on purpose'.

Bingo. That little barbed arrow hits its mark, and no mistake. I can see the flash on anger in Jack's eyes as it registers.

"We're old friends, yes." Jack blinks a couple of times. "Didn't Kensi ever mention me?" He seems totally taken aback, like he should still be featuring in the life or something.

"Oh, it seems like I've known Jack forever," Kensi assures me, jumping in before he can say anything. "Only I didn't know you, did I Jack? Not really." Her eyes narrow when she throws out that comment.

"Did you serve with Kensi's father, Jack?" I interject, doing my best to look politely interested, when what I really want to do is to introduce Jack's teeth to the sidewalk and then jump on his head for good measure. I have to fight the impulse not to ball my hand up into a fist and ram it halfway down his throat.

"I'm not quite that old," he says shortly, barely keeping his temper in check and then turns to Kensi. "Listen, all that was a long time ago. And I was a different person back then. I've changed."

"Really?" She drags that single word out to its ultimate length and scepticism colours every syllable. "That's nice for you, Jack. But I've got news for you – I've changed too. And for the better. I'm not a doormat anymore."

"I want to explain."

And I want to get out of here. Except that this isn't up to me, because it's not about me. It's about Kensi finally having a chance to put some old ghosts firmly into the past, where they belong. So it's up to her. Just to make sure she understands that I'm here for her, I give her hand a subtle squeeze.

Kensi pulls herself up to her full height, which means she's staring directly into Jack's eyes. It's funny, because I'd always imagined him as being taller. And younger. The reality is that Jack is just ordinary: he is so average you would pass him in the street and never even notice he was there.

"Go on then. I'm listening." The look she's giving him is enough to freeze the blood in his veins and Jack seems to realise this. Maybe he's brighter than I gave him credit for?

"Not here. Not like this." And he actually reaches out towards her, smiling this false smile, like everything is fine, and it was just all a misunderstanding. The arrogance of the man just about takes my breath away. He really doesn't know Kensi at all, if he thinks he can lay down the law to her like this and hope to get away with all four limbs in working order. Then again, maybe that was the way things were in their relationship? Maybe Kensi let him get away with calling the shots? It seems pretty unlikely, but I didn't know her back then. That might be why she likes bossing me around so much.

"I guess I could do with freshening up a little," Kensi admits. I don't know, the mud-wrestling look kind of works for me.

Jack gives her a patronising nod. "That's right. And wear your hair down. You don't do yourself any favours, scraping it back like that." The man is so complacent, so incredibly sure of himself that he completely misses the dangerous flash of fire in her eyes at that command. "I'll be waiting at the coffee shop."

"Okay, so how about you tell me how you managed it for so long?" I say quietly, as we slope off to the showers.

"Managed what?"

"Not to suffocate him as he slept. Kensi, the guy is a jerk. A short, pompous jerk. And he's old."

"I know," she sighs. "Do me a favour, will you?"

"What – hold your coat while you beat him up? Sure – if you promise to leave something for me." We're at the shower block now, and I try to laugh things off, like I always do. Of course, I don't fool Kensi for one second.

She stops outside the door, and takes hold of my elbow. "Deeks? You don't need to worry, you know?"

"You're sure about that?"

"Positive. Jack and I - that was a long time ago. I was a different person then. And maybe I was kind of looking for someone like my dad. Was I trying to replace him? I don't know. And it's kind of creepy, now I come to think about it. So I really don't want to talk about that side of things."

I can go along with that. "I can see how it must have been a real bummer for you."

"Which bit in particular?"

"Him being so short. Could you wear heels at all? You must have looked like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes when you were out together." Only nobody would even notice Katie if Kensi was around.

"As in ridiculous? I guess we did, only I just couldn't see it at the time, A whole lot of my friends asked me what I was doing, tying myself down to Jack."

"So why did you?"

"I thought I was in love," Kensi says simply. "At first, he made me feel safe. It was kind of like being a little girl all over again."

"That wasn't love I saw back there – that was control."

"I can see that now, but back then it was different. It was easy – as long as I did what Jack said, then everything was fine." Sighing, she pulls the band from her hair, which tumbles forward over her shoulders.

"Just for the record? I like your hair in a ponytail. I also like it all crazy and messed up." It's true, because Kensi has possibly the sexiest hair I've ever seen.

"Just for the record? The second best day of my life was when Jack walked out. It just took me a while to realise it."

I'm hoping I know the answer, but I ask the question anyway. "And the best day of your life?"

"Discovering I could walk in six-inch stilettos, what else?" She punches me on the arm. "The day I fell in love with you, of course."

Of course. "Right back at you."

I've only got one regret and that is that we're on a military base where there is strictly no fraternising between the sexes, which means my shower isn't anywhere near as interesting as it could be. Still, the water is hot and there's plenty of it. It's just a pity that the walls separating the men's and women's facilities are so thin, because I can hear Kensi singing. And Kensi is a terrible singer. She can manage to change keys in a single bar. However, on the bright side she's singing a song I can empathise with: _"I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair."_ It's an oldie – kind of like Jack, I guess. Poor guy – I almost feel sorry for him, because he has no idea that hurricane Kensi is about to hit. And then I remember how Jack almost destroyed her self-confidence and I reckon that he deserves everything he's about to get. Still, part of me want to thank him for being such a dick, because otherwise I might never have got Kensi in my life. That's the thing about life: sometimes it is so all-fired complicated it makes your head hurt just thinking about all the 'what ifs' and how different things might have been. Only sometimes you've just got to accept that's just the way things are.

* * *

><p>Watching Jack's face as we get out of the Porsche is great. The guy must be a lousy poker player, because I can count at least four different emotions in as many seconds: envy, desire, incredulity and disbelief.<p>

"Now I know where my tax dollars go," he manages to say bitterly, and then nearly chokes on his Cappuccino when he sees how tight Kensi's top is, and the way her jeans cling to her butt. Do I need to add that her hair is up in a ponytail? No, I thought not.

"Are you still in the Corps?" Kensi asks and Jack shakes his head, with a barely-disguised air of impatience.

"Kensi – don't you remember how ill I was? I was discharged. Honourably, of course."

"Of course you were," I agree politely, thinking that I now had the perfect example of a contradiction in terms: Jack and honour. Or is that an oxymoron? I guess we covered that in one of the many English lessons I managed to sleep through.

For some strange reason, this seems to rile him up. "I expect Kensi told you all about it. About us." There's more than a hint of defensiveness in his voice and I can't help noticing that the armpits of his shirt are damp with sweat.

"Not really. In fact, she never spoke about you until today." Unlike Jack, I am a great liar. Well, I started at a young age, telling doctors how I fell down the stairs, or tripped over my own feet, so I've had plenty of practice over the years.

Kensi shrugs. "It wasn't important, Jack. I learnt that you've got to let go of the past and move on." She flashes him a smile. "Just like you did, when you left."

"That was different. And I've changed."

"So you said. And I'm pleased for you, because you really needed to change. But I'm not interested, Jack. I stopped being interested a long time ago."

"So why are you here?" he challenges. "We had something, Kensi. You know it and I know it."

"That was then and this is now. And what we had was toxic." Kensi practically spits the words out and I feel like cheering her on.

"I was sick!" The way Jack says it, I can tell he's been using this excuse for a long time. He turns to me. "I have PTSD. You wouldn't have any idea what that's like, of course." He gives me this look, like I'm not quite all there, or something.

"Of course I wouldn't." Okay, Jack's not just a short jerk, he's a short, deluded, self-centred jerk. And that's just on a good day. I work in law enforcement and he reckons I don't know anything about PTSD? Think again.

Kensi slams her hand down on the table so hard that half of Jack's coffee spills out of the cup and splashes down onto his chinos. "You have no idea, Jack. No idea at all. You think you're the only one who's haunted by what you've seen and what you've done? Well, I've got news for you…"

"Kensi?" I put my hand on her shoulder very gently. "Not now. And not here."

You see, most people don't know we exist. Even within NCIS the remit Office of Special Projects isn't well-known and we'd like to keep it that way. We do the jobs that nobody else wants, and we deal in death. Our exploits aren't publicised, because it would freak the general public out if they ever got wind of just how precarious their supposedly safe lives are, how very close to the edge we come at times to losing the game. We don't talk about that, not really, because we know how easy it would be to fall off that fine razor blade we balance on a lot of the time. We don't talk about it, because most of the time, we're trying to forget about what we do. Only that is an impossible task. I can remember the face of every single person I have ever killed: their face, their name, the day I killed them and a whole lot more. And I have to live with that, as we all do. You want to know why our team is so close? It's simple: because we understand. Nobody else can even come close to understanding what it is like.

"You're right. He's not worth it." Kensi stands up straight and tall. "It took me a long time to see you for who you really are, Jack. A pathetic little man, living in the past. And the worst thing is that I almost let you pull me down with you. I started to forget who I was. When you left, I didn't know how I'd manage to go on living without you. I wasn't even sure I wanted to live without you." She hauls in a deep breath, and when she speaks again, her voice is low. "I'll never forgive you for making me doubt myself, Jack. But that's not the worst thing you did to me – oh no. The worst thing you did to me was to make me afraid to love again. I was this empty shell for a long, long time. Until I met Marty."

Jack is sitting completely still, like he is hypnotised, or something. I don't entirely blame him, because Kensi in full flight is something to behold.

"See, the thing about Deeks is that he's a real man, Jack. He makes me laugh, and he makes me so frigging happy I could cry from pleasure. Because of him, I realised that love is unconditional. He's always looking out for me. Three times he's saved my life, did you know that? But more than that, he gave me my life back again. So really, you did me a huge favour – because you set me free to find a man who is all the things you're not. And besides which, he's so damned hot I get turned on just by looking at him."

Okay, I guess I'm the one standing slack-jawed now. But I'm as proud as hell of my girl, with her flashing eyes.

"I guess you've been wanting to say that for a long time now. To tell me what a loser I am." Jack looks like she's thumped him so hard he's not quite sure what day of the week it is. I actually feel kind of sorry for him, because I think he's only just realising what he's lost and how empty his life is.

"Don't flatter yourself. I was over you a long time ago. You're not a part of my life anymore and you haven't been for years. And my life is so much better without you in it." Kensi gives him a look that is full of pity. "You set me free to find out what life and love is really all about, so I guess I should be grateful to you. Have a nice life, Jack." She walks over to the car without a backwards glance, head held high.

"That went well." I manage to wait until we're driving off before speaking.

Kensi lets out a low sigh of relief. "I thought so."

In the rear-view mirror, I can see Jack is sitting staring numbly into space, probably wondering what the hell just happened. "Did anyone ever tell you how sexy you are when you get mad?"

"I wasn't mad. I was in control the whole time."

"I know. That's what made it so sexy. The whole control thing." I raise one eyebrow. "You know what I mean."

Kensi snorts with laughter. "It always comes down to sex with you in the end, doesn't it?"

"Pretty much."

She leans over and kisses me. Luckily the road is almost empty, because she also appears to have mistaken a certain part of my anatomy for the gear lever. "Which is another thing I love about you. Jack was kind of hopeless in bed, if you want to know."

"Believe me, I don't." I try very hard to concentrate on driving and getting us to the hotel as fast as possible and in one piece. Like I said, when Kensi is mad, she's really sexy. "I've just got one regret about how all that went down."

"Did you want to punch him?" Kensi sounds quite excited at the idea of two guys brawling over her. "You should have said."

"Not exactly." Although disembowelling Jack would have worked for me. Or maybe staking him out in the desert, pouring honey all over him and waiting for the fire ants to do their stuff would have worked just as well?

"Did you want me to punch him?"

Now, I've got to admit, that would have been kind of fun to watch, but I'm not going to tell Kensi that. "Enough with the violence, okay? I think the ritual humiliation was more than enough."

"So what's the regret?"

"Simple - we never got any coffee." Luckily the traffic is heavy enough for Kensi to think twice about hitting me again.

"Just you wait, Deeks."

"What – till you get me alone? So you can have your wicked way with me? Promises, promises."

"I never make promises I can't keep."

Which is just fine by me.


	41. Chapter 41

_thank you for all your good wishes. I'm trying to get my life back together right now, and looking forward to writing and posting on a more regular basis. As well as this chapter, I was inspired by the latest episode (Neighbourhood Watch) and will be posting a story inspired by that later on today._

_Hope you enjoy this latest installment!_

* * *

><p>"How about that? Does that feel good?"<p>

Kensi moans softly, as my fingers ease over her thigh, made silken and slippery by a generous application of body oil. "Don't stop," she begs and stretches languorously.

"I wasn't planning to." She's lying face-down on the bed, hair pinned up on top of her head, with just a few tendrils escaping to curl idly at the nape of her neck, so I blow them aside and dot a series of kisses down her spine, before returning to the job at hand. Or rather at my fingertips. Mind you, it's hard to keep concentrating, distracted as I am by the delicious curve of her ass, as round and ripe as a peach. Or maybe a nectarine? Either way, I'm tempted to sink my teeth into it, but I force my attention back to the small but painful matter of Kensi's thigh muscles.

"Right there." The breath hisses out from behind her teeth, and I can feel the long length of her thigh muscles tense up as I probe the tender spot.

"Try to relax." I explore the area carefully, massaging the muscle as Kensi tries not to wince.

"I'm trying to." She hitches in a breath and tries to let the tension ease of out her body, but not that successfully, because the next time I touch her hamstring, she almost leaps off the bed. "Deeks!"

"Sorry." I keep my fingers pressed into the recalcitrant spot, and use the other hand to push her back down onto the bed and continue with the deep tissue massage, trying to ease out the strain I can feel in her hamstring.

"You don't sound sorry," Kensi grumbles and tries to stop herself flinching as I apply a little more pressure.

"Do you want me to sort this out, or do you want to go back to LA still limping and have Hetty send you off to the ER?"

"You've got a point."

"And it could be worse. Last week I saw this book on her desk: _Acupuncture for Dummies_."

"You are kidding me, aren't you?" There's an edge of real fear in her voice, and actually, I can't blame her. Hetty is terrifying at the best of time, but believe me, you have never known real fear until you've seen Hetty advancing towards you with a needle clutched in her hot little hand and a look of anticipation in her beady little eyes.

"Relax. Of course I'm kidding." The book was actually called _Advanced Acupuncture Techniques_, if you really must know. Hetty is a master of just about everything, after all. Still, there is no way she is ever getting near me with a needle again. Once was more than enough. I still have nightmares about her injecting me, in the manner of a darts player after consuming an entire pitcher of beer. Next time I'll just take my chances with smallpox, if it's all the same, thank you very much.

"He really was a prick though, wasn't he?" Come on, like you could resist the temptation to work that little gem into the conversation? And if you could, then you're either a complete fool or a better man than I am.

"Jack? I guess he was. But at the time… he just kind of seemed safe."

Wow. Talk about damning with faint praise. I'm almost certain none of my ex-girlfriends would ever describe me as 'safe' in their wildest imaginings. Which is a good thing – isn't it?

"And that was what you wanted?"

"I thought I did." She rolls over and stares up at me, eyes hugely dilated, so they look as dark and mysterious as onyx. "Only I was wrong. Jack wasn't safe at all: he was just boring. And as long as I did exactly what he wanted, everything was fine."

"For him, you mean?"

"Definitely. It was like I wasn't myself anymore. Jack had pulled me into his shadow and sucked all the light out of me."

She's shining now, no doubt about it. Kensi is just glowing, and somehow I don't think it's just the aftermath of the long, hot bath we shared, or the massage I'm giving her. There's something else there, something deeper inside. The thought that Kensi, ,my beautiful, incomparable Kensi, who just bubbles over with effervescent vivacity and vitality was so nearly subsumed by the relentlessly mundane Jack is almost beyond comprehension to me. Trying to think about it all rationally, that is perhaps the biggest surprise of all: that Jack is just so damned ordinary and Kensi is so special, so unique. Thank God that she was freed by this plodding, pedestrian man so that she could reach her full potential and sparkle in the sunshine, as she was meant to. Okay, I know I'm getting all poetic again, next thing you know I'll be watching those awful _Twilight_ films, finding I'm enjoying them and thinking about true love and all that, if I'm not careful. It's a god thing Kensi can't actually read my mind, because that would probably have her running for the hills – or back to Pendleton in search of the nearest muscle-bound hulk with the IQ of an elk.

"You had a lucky escape," I comment idly, thinking just how lucky it was for both of us that Jack was a complete jerk.

"Tell me about it."

It occurs to me that things could have been so different – if Kensi was still with Jack, then where would I be? More to the point, who would I be? I've changed a lot in the time we've been together, finally acknowledging that all the things I was running away from for so many years were actually the things I'd always wanted – like a real relationship, a home and even a family. In other words, all the things that I knew nothing about. The journey we've taken together has been the best ride of my life. Only it could so very easily have been different. The thought of my life without Kensi in it scares me witless, because she is so inextricably linked with who I am. In large part that's because she's allowed me to become the man I am today: happy and fulfilled.

Kensi raises herself up onto her elbows and stares at me. "You're a thousand miles away. Come back to me?"

"I'm right here. I was just thinking – how easily things could have been different. If you and Jack were still together, then there wouldn't be any us."

"Stop it right there." Just be make sure, Kensi puts her index finger across my lips. "You and me – we were meant to be. That's all there is to it. So don't think you can try to run out on me, like he did. I've got the ring, remember? And I'm going to marry you and we're going to live happily ever after." She looks so fierce, it's almost comical.

"I wouldn't dare," I assure her, biting the tip of her finger very gently and holding it in my mouth for just a second. That's the truth. "I reckon if you were really mad enough you'd be able to catch me, no matter how fast I ran and then you'd tackle me and bring me crashing down."

"You'd better believe it." Kensi sits up and slides into my arms, pressing herself against me so that I can feel the warmth of her body and her heart pounding away. "Marty? You know I love you – and only you? That Jack means nothing? Less than nothing, actually."

It's what I need to hear, and she is what I need to feel, filling my world with her nearness and the fabulous realisation that somehow she completes me in ways I had never imagined. Her hands are running slowly down my back now, as Kensi starts to whisper about just how much she loves me and all the ways she is going to show me how much she loves me so that we just slide into one another and make slow love, never closing our eyes as the world is imbibed with wonder once again, my mind feels like it's expanding to encompass infinity and all the time our eyes never close, as we look deep into one another so that our very essence is revealed, exposed and healed once again in blessed trinity. I've got everything I ever wanted, right here and now, surrounding me, enveloping me and tomorrow has never looked quite so inviting or exciting, all because I know that Kensi's going to be there, dancing ahead and pulling me onwards. She's all I ever wanted and the best thing of all is that she's mine.

* * *

><p>"I'm starving," Kensi announces, some little while later.<p>

"Seriously?" Because all I want to do is lie here, lounging naked against the pillows and make love to her over and over again. "Why not try the mini bar?" That way she can just bring me some chips, maybe a can of soda to wash things down with and I don't even have to get out of bed. Result or what?

"It's going to take more than a packet of peanuts and a Three Musketeers bar." She bounces onto her knees and looks at me imploringly. "Come on Deeks – there's a little Italian place down the street. It looked cute. And you love pasta."

That's true enough. I also love the way her breast jiggle up and down when she does that. But now I come to think about it, we managed to miss lunch altogether. Plus, the way I see it, Hetty owes us a decent meal after what we went through on that hideous assault course.

"We wouldn't want to waste our expense account, would we?"

There are very few perks that go along with being a federal agent, after all. Apart from that kind of heady rush of running into places with a drawn weapon, which somehow never grows old. It's the ultimate fantasy I suppose – power and phallic symbolism all wrapped up in a huge adrenalin rush that is almost the ultimate high. Almost – but not quite, if you get my drift.

"What are we waiting for?" Kensi leaps off the bed and then winces as her leg protests. "Damn it." She limps over to the dresser and dry-swallows a couple of anti-inflammatories. "I thought you said the muscle wasn't torn."

"It's not torn. Just pulled a bit. And I told you to take it easy, remember?"

"You didn't exactly give me much of an option, did you?" she says in a voice that is full of implied meaning.

"And you could have said 'no', couldn't you?" I respond.

"Where would be the fun in that? And look at it this way – if the Agency card bounces, maybe you could borrow a violin and serenade the customers?"

"I reckon we'd be better off with you washing the dishes out back rather than me scraping away at the violin." I was hoping she would have forgotten about my inadvertent confession all those months ago. Fat chance. She never forgets anything, as I know to my cost.

Kensi tilts her head to one side. "Aren't you ever going to play the violin for me?"

"Probably not." It's been years since I played properly, although you never forget – not really. It's just that without practice, your brain wants to do things that your hands are no longer capable of. You look at the printed music and can hear exactly how it should sound in your head, only your fingers are too clumsy to make the leap from theory into practice. Like any skill, you either use it or you lose it. Which is why I believe in making love as often as possible. I'm very serious about my art, after all.

"Pity. It could have been romantic."

Then again, it could have been a discordant mess that made her ears bleed. I'd rather leave Kensi with some pleasant illusions, if it's all the same. But she actually does look kind of wistful. I guess I've still got some way to go in the 'romantic fiancé of the year' stakes. In fact, I'm hardly out of the starting gate, if I'm honest with myself.

"Maybe one day. At some point. In the future."

I don't want to commit myself to something I can't manage to produce after all. Like I said, I'm a good deal of a perfectionist. Ray used to say I was anal about my violin practice, but that was because he had the artistic integrity of a sausage, so who cares what he thinks? I wonder how life is working out for Ray? I've never heard from him again after he left LA for his new life, but I reckon his kid must be about one by now. No, make that nearer two. Times passes and you suddenly look back and realise it's been too long since you got in touch with old friends, that life is passing you by without you even noticing. I really should get in touch with Ray, because he'd get such a huge kick of finding out that 'Wikipedia' and I finally got our acts together. It would be nice if I could tell him we were also expecting a baby, but then you can't have everything. Ray always said we were meant for each other and I guess he was right.

Now, according to this article I read a long time ago, in order to work out if you really are compatible, you're actually supposed to sit down and then write yourself a list, stating all the qualities you're looking for in a partner. Come on – can you actually see me doing that? No, I thought not. I mean, how mad would that be?

_**Sign #3 Your Partner Is the Right One – They Has the Qualities You're Looking For**__  
>Ideally, you should know ahead of time what qualities are important to you in a mate. Trying to figure it out after the fact can lead to serious problems. If you have a good idea of the qualities you are looking for—the ones that are the most important—it will help you determine if he is the right one. It helps to write a list. Select at least 10 qualities you are looking for. Put that list in the order of importance. Take a serious look at the list and cross off any qualities that aren't so important. Some qualities are probably negotiable. If that is the case, they can likely be removed from the list. The idea is to get down to at least the top 5 non-negotiable qualities that you are looking for.<em>

I don't need to write anything down, because we've talked about our hopes and our dreams, our wishes and our fears. We've even talked about how we're going to cope if those dreams turn to ashes. But if you really must know what I look for in a woman, then here goes:

Honesty.

Trust.

Compassion/love.

Fortitude/Endurance

Laughter.

So there you are. The guide to the convoluted heart of Martin Deeks in a nutshell. Bet you're surprised at how deep I can be? Well, you should know by now that my superficiality is just that – superficial. Most of the time, anyway. You've got to allow me the occasional burst of mindless moronity, just so I know I'm still alive and having fun. Because that's all that really matters in the end, isn't it? I take my pleasures very seriously indeed. What on earth is the point of all this if you can't have some fun? Life is far too long just to go through the motions and endure your existence. I found out a long time ago that Kensi makes loving fun and that life just seems a whole lot better when she's around. And in the process, I discovered that I don't really want to think about a life without her in it, so I guess that settles the whole question, once and for all.

Anyway, the point of all this is just to say that I could sit and analyse our relationship for hours, but when it comes right down to it, Kensi is pretty much everything I've been looking for, all wrapped up in one incredible, gorgeous and utterly sexy package. And for some reason I've never quite worked out, she seems to feel the same way about me. How come I got so lucky?

Well, I keep asking myself that question for some time. We get to the restaurant, and it's so cute it would make your teeth hurt. We're talking about dark wood furniture, red and white tablecloths and guttering candles stuck in venerable wine bottles. If I didn't know better, I'd say it looks like a set that came straight off a Hollywood back lot. But this is the real thing and the food is so good my stomach feels like I've died and gone straight to heaven. The place is small and intimate, and we sit there, talking quietly about everything and nothing and eating this sublime food, accompanied by a Chianti Ruffino that would make angels weep tears of pleasure.

"I have the best ideas, don't I?" Kensi says smugly, as she scrapes up the last vestige of tiramisu from my plate, having already demolished her zabaglione in record quick time. She really should enter one of those speed eating contests one day. Nobody (apart from me) would bet on her, on account of the fact she's so skinny, so I'd be sure to rake in a fortune.

"This is pretty near perfect."

"Not quite perfect?"

"The true test will be when the espresso arrives, of course."

"You and your coffee. I hope they've got these little cookies, wrapped up in the tissue paper."

"Amaretti? But Signorina, of course." The waiter overhears our talk and bustles off, returning with two double espressos and a small hoard of cookies, wrapped in fine paper printed in pastel colours, along with a couple of liqueur glasses filled to the brim with an amber liquid. "Amaretto – like the cookies," he explains.

It's sweet and rich, with a heady taste of almonds and it's almost as good as the coffee, which is satisfyingly rich and dark, with a mellow gold crema floating on the surface. I even manage to snag myself one of the cookies before Kensi munches her way through the hoard. I don't know where she puts it all, I really don't.

"There would be worse place to live than Pendleton," I admit. I'm actually growing to quite like the place. It would be almost okay, if it weren't for the super abundance of Marines and associated heartiness that imbibes the place. And Jack, of course. Talking of whom…

"Did he tag you or something?"

Kensi looks confused. Then again, she has put back a fair amount of alcohol on an almost empty stomach. "What are you talking about?"

"Jack. I was just wondering if he had you micro-chipped so he could keep an eye on you. But it looks like he's just your average stalker." I nod my head towards the door, and Kensi turns around to see Mr Average himself standing there, with a girl at his side.

"It's a restaurant," she says reasonably. "It's probably just a co-incidence."

I don't feel like being reasonable. I want to grab Jack by the collar of his neatly pressed polo shirt and sling him out of the door and then give him a kick in the pants just for good measure. Still, I settle for stating the blindingly obvious. "His friend's awful young."

In fact, in pretty sure she's still in her teens. The good thing is that we've already finished eating, because just looking a Jack and that kid makes me feel uneasy. She looks so young and kind of scared at the same time and the combination is giving me this creepy feeling. Clearly, Jack does not have a subtle bone in his body, far less does he realise when he should leave well enough alone, because he actually comes over to our table, with this false grin on his face, like we're all old friends. As if.

"Fancy running into you again."

"Just fancy." Ice drops off Kensi's tongue as she speaks.

"Darla – this is Kensi. You remember me telling you about her?"

Darla is bright red by this stage, and obviously wishes they'd just gone for a burger. She's only marginally too old for a Happy Meal. "Kind of," she mumbles reluctantly, carefully not looking at us.

Kensi leaps into the breach. "Hi Darla. This is Marty Deeks, who I remember telling Jack all about just a couple of hours ago. Even if he has forgotten. Still suffering from that short-term memory problem, Jack?" She's good, no doubt about that.

"Darla, this is Marty Deeks – Kensi's partner." Jack manages to sound both long-suffering and put-upon at the same time.

"Fiance, actually," I say, ultra-politely and Kensi waggles her left hand meaningfully.

"You never said you were engaged." Jack looks affronted. "And you weren't wearing a ring earlier on." He glares at Kensi, like we're making all this up for his benefit. The guy really has an inflated sense of his own importance.

"One: you never asked. And two – I'd just come off an assault course, so of course I wasn't wearing any jewelry. I wasn't wearing any earrings either, come to that."

They're almost squaring up to each other like a couple of prize-fighters and in an effort to try to diffuse the rather volatile situation, Darla wades in to the fray.

"So, exactly how did you know my Dad, Kensi?"

She could have saved herself the effort of speaking and just lobbed a grenade onto the table, because in less than ten words Darla has just about managed to start World War Three right here in Pendleton. Oh well, at least the Marine Corps will be equipped to handle the casualties.


	42. Chapter 42

_First of all - my apologies that it has been so long since I updated this story. Illness has kept me away from writing for far too long._  
><em>Secondly - I hope you can remember what was going on! In brief, Kensi and Deeks are visiting Pendleton, when they run into her former lover, Jack. Later that evening they see him again, this time in the company of a young girl. Who turns out to be his daughter...<em>

_Yes, I know I've skipped the previous 40 chapters in that summary!_

_Anyway, here is a nice long installment and I promise that I won't be so long in updating next time._

* * *

><p>Now, Darla looks like a nice kid – it's not her fault her father is a complete jerk after all. And I find myself thinking that it's actually kind of a relief to know that Jack is her father, rather than the alternative, which is discovering he's having an unhealthy relationship with a teen. Only I'm guessing Kensi won't see it that way. It's not every day you find your former lover hid the fact he had a daughter, after all. When I look more closely at Darla, who I reckon can be no more than 15, or maybe 16 at the outside, I'm going to go right out on a limb and say her relationship with Daddy Dearest isn't too healthy either. Just for starters, she looks terrified of him. And the way she cowers when Jack shoots her a look makes my hands ball up into fists. I know that look and I know exactly how Darla feels, because I've been there a hundred times myself. You learn to recognise a fellow-victim and you never quite forget how it feels to be so helpless and so trapped with no prospect of escape.<p>

Kensi sees all this too, and she manages to bite her tongue. More remarkably, she manages not to kick Jack in the junk, which is really restrained of her. Far too restrained, if you ask me. He doesn't deserve such consideration – in fact what Jack needs is to have his balls handed to him on a plate, with a garnish of humility on the side. The thing is, Darla is the innocent one here. This isn't her problem and we all know that if Kensi says or does one thing wrong, then Darla is the one who will pay later on. Behind closed doors, of course. That's always the way.

So Kensi fixes a sweet and insincere smile on her face. It doesn't fool me for one second though. "Oh, we were friends a long time ago. And we've kind of lost touch. It was a real surprise meeting your Dad earlier on today."

"Tell me about it."

Would you believe that Jack actually smirks when he says that? Quite how Jack has made it to his advanced age without someone succumbing to temptation and putting him out of his misery is totally beyond me. There must men and women lining up around the block just longing to smack him senseless. His day will come – it's just a pity it's not going to be today, that's all. And when it does come, then Kensi and I are going to be right at the front of the queue.

Darla isn't stupid: she knows that something is going on. Obviously she must get her brains from her mother. The poor kid just gives her father an anxious look and shifts nervously from one foot to the other. It's not her fault: she doesn't deserve this. No kid ever does – and yet it keeps on happening. You learn to recognise the signs a mile off and I kind of want to grab her and get her the hell out of here. Only I can't. I'm as helpless as she is. What makes matters worse is that I've been in her situation and I can remember feeling so lost and powerless, scared to say a word and conditioned to think it is my fault.

So there we all are, in this surreal situation – and Jack has all the power. He knows it; hell, we all know it, Darla included. And that's why he's smirking fit to burst. Because there's not a damned thing anyone can do about it. Not now, at any rate. But the moment I get back to LA, I'm going to have a discrete word with Hetty. No, scrub that, I'm not going to be discrete at all. I'm going to tell her that I think Darla is being abused and that I need Hetty to get me as much information as she can. Hetty has powers that we mere mortals only dream about, and connections that would make the President of the US look like Johnny-no-mates. Once I've got all the details, I'm going to get onto my contacts in Children and Family Services. When I was still practising law, I worked with abused kids and I made a lot of useful contacts. I also saw way too much and it kind of got to me. Well, to be truthful, it got to me big-time. Which is why I jacked it all in and joined LAPD. It was either get out, or burn out. But now I'm going to call in a few favours and one way or another, I am going to wipe that smirk of Jack's face. You just watch me.

"Listen – it's been unreal seeing you again, Jack." Kensi has always had a way with words, but I think she's excelled herself here. "And I'd love to stay and get to know you better, Darla – but we've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow, so we're going to have to go."

"Maybe I'll see you around?" Jack suggests smoothly. As if. I'm going to come at him when he least expects it and in a way he will never imagine. His little power-games are about to come to an end, sooner or later.

"You never know." I favour him with an enigmatic smile that would make the Mona Lisa jealous. All abused kids learn how to be really good actors early on.

Darla gives us a shy smile. "It was really nice meeting you."

"You too, sweetheart. You stay safe now, okay?"

I can't resist saying that, and it is worth it just to see the way Jack jumps. He knows, you see. He knows that I know. I just hope that knowledge keeps Darla safe for another few days, just long enough until I can get her away from this man. Some men shouldn't be left in charge of a goldfish, far less a child. And some women are just as bad. And then there are the men and women who are just crying out for a child – like Kensi and I are. And that's just the way it is, because life isn't fair. I learnt that when I was just a kid, way younger than Darla. That doesn't mean to say I've ever learnt to accept it though. Quite the contrary, actually.

* * *

><p>Kensi waits until we get back to our hotel room before she explodes.<p>

"That bastard. All those years and he never said a word. Not one single word. That lying, cheating bastard."

She's got Jack down pat. That's a pretty good summary of who he is. Other than the fact she left out his control fetish, egomania and lack of height. Oh and one other thing. "That lying, cheating, abusing bastard," I amplify.

"You spotted it too?"

"Couldn't miss it. Once you know the signs, they kind of scream out of you. Darla's afraid of him."

All the anger just seeps out of her, and Kensi sinks down onto the bed. "I guess you'd know."

Well yes, I would, seeing as how my father made Jack look like Ben Cartwright and Bill Cosby rolled into one, and my mother could match him all the way – punch for punch, if you really must know. But I don't want to talk about that, because I'm still trying to put those demons behind me. Most of the time I'm pretty successful, but this meeting has brought it all back, so that the memories are biting at my heels. I'm guessing Jack is careful, just like my parents were – he'll have learnt only to hit Darla so that the marks aren't visible. The thing is that the worst scars are the mental ones – the ones nobody can see.

"We've got to do something," Kensi says. "We can't just leave her."

I sit down beside her and pull her into my arms. "I'm going to do something. I promise. You've just got to trust me on that." I don't want to say too much, not until I find out all the facts.

"I trust you. And I know why you need to do this. Just tell me what I can do to help."

There are times when nothing more needs to be said, because you are just instinctively in harmony, not only knowing what the other person thinks or feels, but why they say it. We've got a rare bond, Kensi and I, it's like nothing can pull us apart. But Darla has got to me. She's really got me, and I hate feeling so helpless. And Kensi senses this and she starts to kiss me, just melting into me like warm chocolate: sweet, pliable and utterly irresistible. Kensi gets me on her wavelength and she pushes away all the shams and drudgeries of this world so that I start to believe again.

**Sign #4 Your Partner Is the Right One – You Share the Same Values  
><strong>_What do you value most? What values make up the life you have chosen to live? These are important questions to ask yourself, as they will help determine if your partneris the right one for you. _

Afterwards, we talk, wrapped in each other's arms and in the safe darkness.

"You never knew about Darla?" I'm stroking her back and burying my face in her hair.

"I never knew," Kensi confirms, and her voice is as bitter as I have ever heard it. "He never said one word about. Not one single word. All those years we spent together and Jack never even mentioned he had a daughter." She goes rigid with anger. "How could he do that?"

"Because he's a complete dick?"

Kensi pulls back to look at me gravely. "If only he had been." And then she smiles.

Really? Well now, isn't that interesting. So Jack is somewhat underendowed? That's very interesting indeed.

"Lucky you found me then," I say modestly. It's one of my best points, my modesty. Along with great hair and a definite complacency where it matters. If you get my drift. Like I said, I'm a modest guy and I don't want to brag about what God gave me. Well, not too much.

"It's like I never really knew Jack," she muses.

"He never knew you either – he can't have, because he'd never have left you."

"You say the nicest things, do you know that?" Kensi moves closer, sinuously curving her body around mine. It's like nothing can part us.

"I wonder what other secrets he had?"

"I bet they were really boring ones, sweetheart." She's going to drive herself crazy if she starts to try to forensically examine their relationship, but I get why she needs to talk about it. I just wish I could remember how to perform an exorcism. How come there's never a handy priest around with bell, book and candle when you need them? And actually, the thought of Jack's head spinning around sort of works for me.

"He had disgusting habits, you know? I mean, he cut his toenails in bed, you know." I can feel her whole body start to shake with laughter. "And he bought one of those clippers for nose and ear hair and used to use it at the breakfast table."

And yet this sorry excuse for a human managed to almost break Kensi, leaving her thinking that she was the one at fault and that she was worthless. And now he's doing the same thing to Darla. Not for much longer though.

"Why did I stay with him for so long?" Kensi wonders.

I don't say anything, but I know why: because she loved him and wanted to be loved back. Kensi was reaching out for love after her Dad died, and Jack came along and seized onto her vulnerabilities. I know all about loving the wrong people, and I bet Darla does too. Most battered kids do, along with being convinced they don't actually deserve to be loved in the first place.

* * *

><p>We almost sleep in next morning, what with one thing and another – well, mostly the other, because Kensi can be very distracting when she puts her mind to it and she simply won't take "no" for an answer. Not that I have ever actually said "no", because like I said, she can be very distracting. So it's kind of a mad scramble to get ready and out of the hotel in time for our session on the gun range at Pendleton. I only manage to have one cup of coffee, that's how bad it is. Yeah, I know I said I'd given up java for chai, but last night and those espressos made me realise how much I was missing. There is nothing like a decent hit of caffeine in the morning. Well, apart from making love, obviously. But like I said, we were running late. Mainly because we'd spent most of the previous night making love. And anyway, it wasn't like giving up coffee had made a blind bit of difference on the baby-front anyway.<p>

I notice that Kensi takes just a bit more time over her make-up than normal, but I don't say anything, mainly because at the time I'm busy running the clippers over my face. I even go so far as to comb my hair. She doesn't make any of the normal remarks about how she needs to book a joint appointment for me and Monty at the groomers either, in fact Kensi doesn't say a word about my sudden interest in my appearance. Now, that's partly because she's busy putting on a second coat of mascara, but mainly because we both want to look our best, just in case Jack shows up again.

Now, would you like to try and work that one out? I've tried, and I still can't figure it out. I mean, we obviously weren't trying to impress him or anything like that, because who cares what Jack the Jerk thinks? So, are we trying to show him how cool and sexy we are and make him jealous? Maybe. I don't know and I've given up trying to make some sense of it. Suffice to say that Kensi is wearing one of her low cut v-neck tshirts, along with her tightest jeans. You practically have to peel them off, but believe me, it is well worth the effort. She's a sight for sore eyes, but the poor Marine in charge of the armoury doesn't know where to look. Well he does, obviously – but he's not about to go there. So what he does is to go bright red instead. He called us "Ma'am" and "Sir" and from the looks I get he would happily kill me on the spot. And that kind of makes me feel good, if you know what I mean. If you don't, then you probably shouldn't be reading this in the first place.

Anyway, we go out onto the range, and I have this brilliant idea – I pretend like the targets are Jack. It works. In fact, it works brilliantly. I'm getting head shots and bulls-eyes by the bucket-load. Or magazine clip, I suppose. Let's just put it this way: whne they tally up all the scores, I almost equal the all-time Pendleton record. Now, given that said record was set by one Leroy Jethro Gibbs, that makes me feel pretty good about myself. And when I learn that I've easily beaten both Callen and Sam, I feel like doing a victory dance. Not that I'm going to rub it in - well, not too much. I might just copy my score sheet and put it in with their Christmas cards this year though. It's just that these things seem to matter an awful lot to them, like it proves something. Well, it does, I guess. It shows you can shoot to kill. And that's the problem for me. You see, when you shoot to kill, there's an awful lot of dead people left in your wake. There are times when I feel like a state-sanctioned killer. If we do ever manage to have a child, how the hell are Kensi and I ever going to explain what we do for a living?

"You really are quite competitive" Kensi says. Which is rich, coming from her. Do not ever play Monopoly with Kensi Blue, that's all I'm saying. Mind you I think Callen and Sam are partly to blame, what with their little male-bonding routines, cunningly disguised as point-scoring exercises. It's kind of like watching one of those documentaries where a couple of wild animals vye for supremacy. And for a long time Kensi felt she had to compete right alongside them. And then I waltzed in and just didn't have time for all that crap. I was a lawyer, for crying out loud. You don't get much more cut-throat competition than that, what with everyone judging everyone else on the cut of their hair, and how sharp their suits are. And that's even before they open their mouths, whereupon there's a whole new game begins: which school did you go to? Much to my disgust I found myself getting dragged into that whole stupid game and I played right along with it, determined to beat the big guys at their own game.

I know, you can't quite believe it. But once upon a time I played the game: I had the corporate haircut and I wore the dark suits with pristine white shirts and silk ties and the shoes that are so shiny you can see your face in them. And actually, I looked quite good. Only it was all just a pretence. I was the same person underneath the shiny exterior. And I learned how all the window-dressing in the world can't hide the sordid facts about what one human can do to another. After a while, I grew tired of seeing how the law couldn't protect the weakest people – the ones who needed help the most. By the time things got to the stage where lawyers became involved it was already too late. So I ditched the suits and joined the LAPD. Whereupon I discovered that while there are a lot of girls who love a man in a suit, there are just as many who love a man in uniform. What you lose on the swings, you win on the roundabouts.

However, I'm going to place the majority of blame for Kensi's need to win on Jack. He made her feel worse than nothing, so I can understand why she feels the need to prove herself. Working with a whole lot of guys isn't easy on her either. So I don't say anything.

"Don't look so superior." She takes the sheet out of my hand and studies it carefully. "Okay, I take that bad. You can look superior. This is actually amazing. I never knew you could shoot like that."

You see, a lot of the time I goof around, even on the shooting range. There was that time when some bright spark in NCIS (and I've got Eric fingered as the guilty party) thought it would be amusing to make a target in the shape of the one and only Hetty. And I thought it would be equally amusing to shoot her bang in the centre of the forehead, accidentally on purpose. It was just a slight misjudgement on my part that Hetty happened to have done of her 'materialising out of thin air" acts. Let's just say she was less than amused, shall we? Which isn't exactly the truth, but the ritual humiliation I went through was bad enough the first time without having to relive it in retrospect.

"Ray taught me how to shoot when I was just a kid. We used to go out into the woods and practice target shooting."

I haven't thought about that for years… Ray was a lot older than me, but his aunt lived in our street and he used to come round and do her garden. I guess I was just hanging around at a loose end, because when you move houses as often as my parents did, and change schools each time, then it's not that easy to make friends. Anyway, for some reason Ray took a shine to me that summer and he kind of looked out for me. I never talked about what went on at home, because I'd been well-drilled as to the consequences, but Ray knew things weren't great. I just never realised how much he guessed until the day he gave me this hand-gun.

"_You need to learn how to use this kid. To keep yourself safe."_

I didn't actually think that much about it at the time, mainly because I was amazed at how heavy the gun was. Like I said, I was just a little kid, about seven or eight, but I took it and I kept it hidden for years. As it turns out, Ray was right. I guess he saved my life by teaching me how to shoot straight. In fact, it's because of Ray that I didn't kill my old man a few years later. I was aiming for his shoulder you see, and even though I was kind of in agony from that punch to the face, I managed hit him in the shoulder. And then I threw up. I don't remember much about what happened next, which the social workers was normal, as I was blocking out the trauma. But I do remember how shocked my Dad looked when I fired the gun and the way he clamped his hand over the wound before dropping down onto his knees. And it's not easy to forget the way my Mom screamed at me. I've tried to forget, only I can't quite manage it. She stopped screaming though when I turned the gun to point at her.

Would I have fired? I don't know. Really, I don't know because the cops arrived at that point and they took one look at me – covered in blood from a broken nose - and that was the beginning of the end as far as my less than happy childhood was concerned. As it turns out, Mom and Dad were right, because when I finally spoke about what was going on in the seemingly respectable Brandel household, I was put into foster care. That was possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. Anyway, they were both found guilty of child endangerment and battery. And that meant I was free at last. I never saw either of them again.

Of course, I don't say all this at the gun range. Kensi's picked up most of the salient points over the years, though, so she can read the subtext and hear all the things I'm not saying.

"I'm glad he did," she says. "I'm really glad Ray taught to you to shoot." And then she wrinkles her nose. "Now, if only I could teach you to stop shooting your mouth off, I'll die happy." But as she kisses me after that, I'm going to hazard a guess that she wasn't entirely serious. I think. I hope so anyway. Anyway, where would we be without my witty repartee and sparkling dialogue? The Mission would be a whole lot duller, I'm telling you. I like to think I bring a little linguistic levity into what can be a killer of a job. That pun was ironic, by the way. You should know me well enough by now to realise that while I might make light-hearted remarks, I never joke about what I do.

"You want to know the truth? I was thinking about Jack each time I squeezed the trigger." Well, they say confession is good for the soul. While I'm in a penitent frame of mind I'll just add that I will derive an inordinate sense of gratitude when Jack is finally brought to book.

Kensi laughs. "So was I. Only I had to make a real effort not to aim all my shots at his groin."

That's my girl.

And that just about wraps up Pendleton for us. Technically, there's enough time for me to hit the beach and catch a few waves, but for once my heart isn't in it. Too much has happened here and there is work to be done back in LA. So we hit the road, with the Porsche just eating up the miles.

"It really bugged Jack to see us this car." I can't help noting the rather smug tone in Kensi's voice. "It hit him right where it hurts. He was a real gear-head. Only he could never afford something like this. Not even in his dreams."

Excellent. I love it when I score points without even trying. I conveniently ignore the fact that we couldn't afford this car either, not in a million years. Why sweat over the small details? It's what Jack thought that counts.

It's a good thing there aren't any Highway Patrol guys on the horizon because this car can reach insane speeds. I put my foot down and watch as the scenery just slips by. Eat your heart out, Jack – because I've got the car and I've got the girl. She used to be your girl, didn't she, Jack? Only you threw her away like some worthless piece of trash. That was your first mistake, although I'm more grateful for that than you could ever know. I've got Kensi in my life and, because I'm not stupid like you, I'm never going to let her go. Your second mistake was walking into that restaurant with Darla, because tomorrow I'm going to start the process that will take your other girl away from you – I'm going to take Darla away to safety. You don't know what's about to hit you, Jack. That's a promise.

* * *

><p><em>I hope you've enjoyed this long-overdue installment. A few more secrets from Deeks' past revealled. Evil plot bunny wants Deeks and Kensi to beat up Jack. For once, I think he has a point.<em>


	43. Chapter 43

_Huge thanks to everybody who has been reading and reviewing this._

* * *

><p>Well, we get back to LA in record time, only to discover the dog-sitter Hetty arranged for Monty has done a pretty good job, all things considered. Which means that although he was sick in the kitchen, at least he didn't eat any of our vast assortment of throw pillows. What kind of a stupid word is "throw pillow" anyway and what exactly are you supposed to do with them? In our house, Kensi arranges them with loving care into these artistic arrangements and I'm not allowed to even lean back on them, so the chances of me being allowed to actually throw one at Kensi are exceeding slim. Non-existent actually. Yes, the age of miracles has not yet passed, because Kensi has become house-proud. Maybe it's because we've got such a great house? She's also stopped eating quite so much junk food, but she's still as hot as ever, so I don't much care. But it is a shame about not being able to throw these pillows, because that could be kind of fun. Kind of like a pillow fight. Only naked. Actually, that seems like a really great idea. I don't know why I never thought of it before.<p>

So, there I am, just about to draw the blinds, when I spot the remains of one of Kensi's favourite pairs of shoes, cunningly tucked behind another one of those throw pillows. Clearly even Monty doesn't dare to disturb the precise arrangement on the sofa, but he couldn't resist tucking the mangled evidence behind one of them. Now, I could be wrong, but I'm guessing they were kind of expensive (the shoes, not the pillows. I know exactly how much they cost and still can't quite believe I was stupid enough to pay so much for them. Only Kensi had her heart set on them, you see.). Now, these particular shoes have red soles, which I think makes them kind of special, although not nearly as special as Kensi looks when she wears them and nothing else at all. It's a look I can highly recommend. Anyway, what's done is done, and it's hardly Monty's fault, so I say nothing and decided to sneak the evidence out with the garbage when Kensi isn't looking. It seems safest that way, especially because Monty is looking particularly unrepentant. Translation: he's happily engrossed in licking his balls. Maybe we should think about getting him a female companion? It doesn't seem right to deprive him of what only comes naturally and he has to take his solace somewhere, doesn't he?

Anyway, Kensi makes straight for the shower the minute we get home, like she wants to wash away all the sordid memories of the past couple of days. Normally I would have been jumping right on in there with her, but I've got to dispose of her shoes and when I lift up the pillow, I discover that Monty has had a consoling chomp at it too, and the feathers go everywhere. So there I am, running around with the vacuum when I could be having some good, clean soapy fun in the shower.

"The things I do to keep the peace in this house," I say to Monty, who decides this is my way of saying what I really want to do is go for a nice long walk.

Now, it would be kind of great to be able to report that when I get back it is to discover that Kensi has lovingly anointed her body with oil and then slipped into some slinky lingerie and is reclining gracefully on the sofa. Or even that she's standing in the bedroom doorway wearing nothing in particular except a beguiling smile and then hands me a bottle of body oil, along with an invitation I can't refuse. Oh yes, that would be great, but that's not the way real life works. Well, not my life, anyway. What actually happens is that I get home to discover Kensi padding around in a pair of old flannel jammies I was almost certain I'd disposed of a few months back. She nods distractedly at me and Monty, and makes straight for the kitchen. When she comes back in, she's carrying a bowl.

"Lucky Charms? Really?" I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. Who the heck eats that sort of stuff once they can sit on a chair and have their feet reach the ground? What does it say about American society that we think it's neat idea to combine oats and marshmallows, then add a ton of sugar and have the nerve to call it a breakfast cereal?

Kensi smiles happily, sits down on the couch (tossing those pillows to one side in a cavalier fashion that would have me denied all conjugal privileges for at least a week) and reaches for the tv remote.

"Yes, really. Lucky Charms."

Flicking through the channels she settles on one of the "_Real Housewives_" shows. Now the best thing I can say about them is that they actually make my own family look relatively normal, and that isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, is it? And those women are scarey. I mean deeply scarey. It's like they're walking advertisements for why plastic surgery is a bad thing. This particular episode features a woman who also demonstrates exactly why dying your hair jet black is never going to look good, particularly if you already have a forehead that is only half the normal size, so that there is only about three inches between those matching eyebrows and hairline. Not that I actually watch any of these shows, you understand. I only catch small glimpses when I turn over as the commercial breaks come on during _Jersey Shore_. And I only watch that to remind myself why I live on the West Coast.

"We don't have Lucky Charms." I know this for a fact, because when we go grocery shopping I wait until Kensi is momentarily distracted and then swap all the crap she throws in for healthy stuff – like proper oatmeal and fresh fruit. Stuff that doesn't make your teeth hurt just by looking at it.

"Actually, we do. This is from my secret stash." She takes a large spoonful and a look of rapturous delight comes over her face. "Anyway, it's no big deal. I only use it in cases of emergency."

I prefer a 10-year old malt, myself. Which I also have stashed away in case of emergencies. Seems there's a few secretes going on in this house. Interesting. "It's not going to do you any good – you do know that? It's just full of sugar."

"Which is exactly what I want right now – sweet sugary goo, with no nutritional benefits at all." She holds out the bowl. "Go on – tell me you don't want to go pour yourself a bowl right now?"

Nothing easier. "Kensi - the only thing looking at the bowl makes me feel is nauseous."

"Good – all the more for me." She consumes the rest of her snack with considerable relish and then stretches out her legs and surveys her feet critically. "God, I need a pedicure."

And thus you have a glimpse into the glamorous life of Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye – complete with house-destroying dog, dubious taste in both TV watching and eating habits, not to mention chipped nail polish – summed up in a nutshell. Ah yes – real life. It's pretty damned perfect, if you ask me. When did I get so lucky?

Of course, not everything is perfect. There's still the thought of Darla that's nagging away at my conscience, like toothache. And the small fact we've got a wedding to plan – and a baby to try and make. Okay, there's not a lot I can do about the first two tonight, but as for the third… Let's just say that necessity is the mother of invention, shall we?

"How about I give you a foot rub?" I raise my eyebrows and Kensi dumps the cereal unceremoniously onto the coffee table before patting the sofa invitingly. Excellent. So I'm sitting there, with Kensi's feet in my lap and pretty soon we both forget about the crap on the TV, because we're concentrating on much more important things. To be honest, they could probably drop the bomb outside and we probably wouldn't even notice. You have to get your priorities in life straight, after all. And you have to live in the moment, and savour each second you are together.

**Sign #5 Your Partner Is the Right One – You Can Be Yourself With Them  
><strong>_You will not be appreciated or valued by a person who tries to change you or who cannot love you, flaws and all. So if you can be who you are when you are with them, they might just be the right one for you. This means they not only accepts the good in you, but also your weaknesses and faults. When you can be yourself, you will experience a sense of freedom. You will have __confidence__ in knowing that they accept you just as you are._

I've had enough with these lists now – because all they ever do is just confirm that somehow I've found the only girl in the world for me, and that by some miracle, she thinks I'm the only guy for her. Ain't life grand? What more do we need to know – apart from the fact that we're crazy in love? Nothing else matters and that's just the way it is and the way it will always be.

Nothing in life is completely perfect, after all. Sometimes you have to look beneath the surface – or even underneath the ratty pyjamas. Which I do – and believe me it is worth it. And then some. Of course, Kensi's seen me at my worst too – like when I was lying out of the count in hospital, or being all pathetic when I got home – and by some miracle that didn't put her off. Mind you, I still sometimes can't quite believe we're planning to spend the rest of our lives together. What did I do to deserve to get so lucky? But I've come to believe that although life can be truly crappy at times, it can also be incredibly brilliant too. That's just the way things are and sometimes you just take what you are given, you grab it with both hands and hold it so damned close that nobody can ever take it away from you – because you've found the one person who makes this whole crazy world make sense. And because you don't even want to think about life without her, because she is your life, and that's all there is to it.

So, whether she is wearing a pair of ancient pyjamas in her twenties, or all dressed up to go out and celebrate our golden wedding anniversary in the years to come, it doesn't matter because Kensi will always be beautiful to me, not only because of who she is, but also for who she has made me. You see, my life would be nothing without her.

* * *

><p>Of course, there are some things I am determined to change, namely this: I am going to get Darla to safety and in the process I am going to wipe the smug, self-satisfied smile of Jack Reynold's face if it's the last thing I do. So the next morning I go straight to Hetty, and I'm prepare to grovel unreservedly, if that's what I need to do. I'll personally valet her Jaguar every single weekend, if that's what it takes. I mean, I'm so desperate, I'll even agree to a haircut and shaving very other day if that is the price Hetty extracts. I'll do pretty much anything – I just need her help.<p>

Only, as it turns out, I don't need to do any of the above. The minute I start to tell Hetty about Darla, her mouth goes into this hard, straight line. By the time I've finished telling the story, her mouth is pursed so tightly you can't even see her lips at all, and her eyes have this hard look about them. Not that she says a whole lot.

"I see." It's probably the only time I've ever seen Hetty so reticent, and I'm kind of scared she thinks I'm exaggerating.

"Hetty – I honestly believe this kid is being abused. I'm not just making this up as some way to get back at Jack." Although that would be a very welcome side-effect, of course.

She relaxes for a moment. In fact, she even goes so far as to pat me on the arm. "I would never to presume to think such a thing, Mr Deeks. I know you far too well to ever make such a mistake."

And it's the funniest thing, but I get the feeling Hetty is hinting at something. Only she can't know, because I've never told anybody about my childhood, except Kensi, of course. And she would never tell anyone, not even Hetty. And then I get this sinking feeling in my gut, because I remember Kensi telling me about when they did that scan in the hospital after I was shot in the leg, and how they saw all my old injuries. This shiver runs right down the whole length of my spine as I realise Hetty does indeed know. She knows all about it. Heck, with all her sources, Hetty probably knew even before she approached me with an offer I couldn't refuse – namely to come work with the OSP team.

See, the thing is that my past is my business. I don't want to share it with everyone, like I'm playing the sympathy card. People either like me for who I am, or they don't like me at all. It's as simple as that. And the other thing is that the past really is in the past. I've got way beyond it – I've built my own life. And it strikes me that maybe this is precisely why Hetty sought me out in the first place – because I'm my own man and I've shown that you can not only get over the crappiest of starts in life, but you can actually manage to build a pretty decent life for yourself. With the help of a good woman, of course. Kensi would kill me if I didn't say that.

"It is kind of personal," I admit, staring down at the floor. I do not want to see a look of sympathetic understanding in Hetty's eyes or, far worse – pity. I don't think I could cope with that. "For me and for Kensi." Because Jack hurt her emotionally, you see. It isn't just physical scars and broken bones that take a long time to heal. Sometimes it's the wounds that are invisible, the ones nobody knows about that cause the most pain. There are few things worse than being made to believe you are completely worthless – and you can quote me on that. Only do me a favour – make it anonymous, will you?

"Who could possible see a vulnerable child and not want to do everything in their power to help?" Hetty says crisply. "The day that happens is the day I finally give up all hope for the human race. You may be incorrigible at times, Mr Deeks, but you have excellent instincts. And your heart is in the right place."

Yeah, it's on my sleeve. I know that, and I don't actually care. "So you'll help me get some information?" If I sound like I'm pleading, that's because I am.

"I'll bloody well move heaven and earth to find out as much as I can, and that's a promise."

I love it when she swears, I really do. It's so incongruous, coming from this pristine person, with not a hair out of place. Nobody hearing Hetty use that tone of voice could have the slightest doubt that she means every single word. I scrawl down all the relevant information I have (which isn't a whole lot) and hand it across to her.

"I know I don't have to say this, but because it is so personal – to me and to Kensi – we'd really like it to stay that way. So we'd kind of appreciate it if you didn't say anything. To anyone." I hate the fact I have to ask like this, because it sounds like I don't trust Hetty, and the reverse is true. I'd trust her with my life- heck, I'd trust her with Kensi's life, because I know Hetty is always there, watching out for us, watching over us like some miniature guardian angel with a caustic tongue that never quite manages to hide the love just below the surface.

"And exactly when would I find the time?"

Yup, there it is again – Hetty's justly-famed dismissal of any hint of sentimentality. It's actually quite a relief.

"Which reminds me: I've been meaning to ask you something. Pink or lavender?" She cocks her head to one side and regards me gravely, just like a bright-eyed bird surveying a particularly juicy worm.

Okay, once again she's got me on the hop. Who can figure out how Hetty's devious little mind works? Not me, that's for sure. "Pink or lavender _what?_"

She favours me with a look of utter disdain. "The colours for your wedding, of course."

Of course. Forgive me for not being able to keep up. I must have forgotten to pick up the crib notes for this conversation on my way in to work this morning. Actually, it's kind of great that Hetty detests sentimentality almost as much as I do. It makes life one hell of a lot easier.

"Uh – neither?" It's not like I'm being given much of a choice after all, is it? Since when did weddings have to be colour coded? And what's wrong with dark blue, for crying out loud?

Hetty looks kind of smug. "That's exactly what I said to Julia. The poor woman really has no sense of occasion. And her colour choices suck. I'm sorry, but there's no other word for it."

You know, a small part of me would love to sit in on one of those planning meetings between Hetty and Kensi's mom, as they bicker over each tiny (and let's be honest) utterly inconsequential element of our wedding. A really small part. But most of all I'm just glad we asked them to help and then kind of delegated all the really boring stuff to them. I mean, just as long as we actually get married in the first place, and then there's a decent band and plenty to drink – then who really cares? No, don't answer that one, because I already know the answer: women. Women really think it matters what kind of invitation you send out, while men learn just to let them get on with it. As long as the guy turns up on the day, he's pretty much superfluous for all the rest.

"I knew I could rely on you, Hetty."

"I'm glad I've taught you that much, Mr Deeks. There is some hope for you after all."

Hetty Lang – the world's most unlikely fairy godmother. And God, I love her. I wouldn't change one single thing about her.

* * *

><p>For a few weeks life goes slowly on. Having finally settled on a colour scheme, Julia and Hetty progress to arguing over each and every detail of the menu, although luckily we only hear about this after they finally reach some sort of mutually agreed compromise. I don't think the United Nations Peace Keeping Force was drafted in, but it was a close-run thing by all accounts. Kensi goes on various mysterious shopping trips, leaving all evidence behind at her mother's house. I don't know why she doesn't trust me not to peek. Okay, that's a lie. I know exactly why Kensi doesn't trust me – it's because she knows what I'm like. Of course I'd look. I don't think that's a big problem, but she does, for some reason. Anyway, the result is that all temptation is removed from the house.<p>

Meanwhile, all of a sudden Nell really starts to show that she's pregnant. I guess she was hiding the evidence beneath those sort of smocky-type dresses she wears (or are they tunics? Don't ask me. I'm only a man. What do I know about fashion- apart from what Kensi tells me, of course?), because it seems like one minute she was normal shaped and the next minute she looks like she's got a football stuffed up her dress. It strikes me that we'd better get the wedding invitations out before it's time for Nell's shower. We don't want her going into labour just as we're about to say "I do".

And in the background, Hetty, Kensi and I are beavering away, finding out detail after tiny detail about Jack and Darla, building up a picture. It's frustrating, because while I don't want to leave her with him for a second longer, at the same time I know we have to have a water-tight case. There's no room for error here, none at all. This is a kid's life we're talking about. I just hope we're not too late, because the more I find out about Jack, the more I hate him.

Somehow, in between all of the above, there is the small matter of our normal caseload at work. So it's kind of a miracle that I find enough time to get myself a suit, which I leave over at Sam's. Hey, if it works for the bride, then it works for the groom, right? No, don't answer that, because we already established that the groom is kind of incidental to the whole affair. Wedding are really about women, right? And people say I'm a slow learner. Anyway, while I'm at Sam's house, I seize hold of my courage and ask him if he'll be my best man. That just seems right, somehow.

"Really?"

Now, this is when I know the big guy is moved, because he'd never normally say that. Sam reserves huge amounts of scorn for the very few occasions I utter that word. You'd think it was a habit with me, or something.

"Really." Okay, so maybe it is a habit? So what?

Sam shakes his head, like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. I don't know if I should be flattered or offended. Or even both. "I always thought you'd want Callen," he mumbles, after a long silence that has me worried.

Now, I know they are best buds and all that, but sometimes I wonder if standing in Callen's shadow for too long has left Sam so that he can't see who he really is or what a great guy he is. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but once you get to know him, you find out that Sam's an incredibly modest guy.

"Nothing against Callen, but I want you standing up there beside me, Sam."

It must be a trick of the light, because for a moment I almost think I can see tears in his eyes. Only Sam doesn't cry. It would be nonsense to even think about that. Just like it would be complete rubbish to suggest that I'm really moved by his emotions, so that the world kind of goes a bit blurry for a couple of moments. I mean, nothing could be further from the truth. Obviously. So we just settle for thumping each other on the upper arm, in a macho sort of way. Because we're big, tough guys – so of course we don't cry. Yeah, right.

"I'd be honoured, Deeks. Really honoured." Sam takes a deep breath in and holds it for a second before bursting into the biggest smile I've ever seen. I mean, I can see his tonsils and everything. And then he reaches forward, pulls me into this bear-hug, so that my feet are swinging off the ground and everything. Finally, he puts me down. "You don't know how much this means to me, Deeks."

Well actually, I do. I know how it feels to have your feeling validated and to realise that somebody thinks about you and, what's more actually cares about you. You see, there was a time when I first came to NCIS when things were kind of lousy. Sam in particular seemed to resent the fact that I'd been parachuted in and he made that pretty obvious. Callen was worse, though. The first op I went out on with the team, Callen was determined to show how he was the senior agent and I was just some jumped up detective from LAPD who didn't know squat. Never mind the fact that I was the only one who could actually get them into this nightclub. Anyway things went wrong, and it ended up with this girl having a gun pointed right at her head, right in the middle of the dance-floor. Now, I had a clear shot and Callen didn't. There's a protocol you follow – and that means you put personal feelings aside. You go for the least dangerous option every single time. It was my shot, because I had the safest angle. I was standing behind the shooter, while Callen was in front, and the girl's head was blocking most of the target. So there was no contest, no room for argument. It was my shot. I had a clear shot and a safe shot: Callen had neither.

Except that Callen couldn't accept that. He let his pride get in the way and he insisted on taking the shot. Now, there were a number of ways that situation could have gone down: he could have ended shooting the girl, or the hostage taker (which he did, by the grace of whatever deity watches over people like us), or even one of the people standing around and watched in horror. The most likely outcome though was that Callen could have shot me. Because I was standing right behind the girl, like I told you and the bullet went straight through the gunman's head and right out the back. Luckily I ducked, or I wouldn't be here today. I hit the deck so fast you wouldn't believe it.

Now granted all that was a long time ago and it all turned out fine, and I'll even accept that Callen didn't know just how good a shot I am – but back then it made me feel like Callen saw me as expendable. And I've never quite been able to forget the cold look I saw in his eyes that night. You want the truth? That evening I looked at Callen and I saw my father. There was that same fixed purpose about him, that element of "come what may", and it scared me. The memory still does. And it's completely irrational, I know it is. We've all moved on since then. Heck, I even walked out of the Mission after Callen and went over to Romania with him. I've pretty much stood by him every step of the way and now I'd trust him with anything and follow his lead implicitly. I might even love him, in a brotherly sort of way. A much older brother, of course, who kind of lucked-out in the hair department. But it's Sam I want at my side when I marry Kensi. He was the first one who made me feel like I really belonged, and you don't forget something like that.

"Come on, you don't have to hide it, Sam. I know how much you care."

The thing about Sam is that he kind of finds it hard to put what he's feeling into words. He shows you tough love instead. Like the time when I was shot in the convenience store, and Sam was beating himself up because he hadn't drummed it in to me about changing my routine. And the dumb thing was that it didn't actually matter– it wouldn't have made any difference at all, no matter how careful I was. Those guys deliberately made me a target as a way of getting to Kensi and they were going to get me, one way or another. Sometimes you just have to accept that you can take all the precautions that you want, but if it's going to happen, then it's going to happen. Anyway, there I was in the hospital, feeling like crap and Sam came in and started nagging me about being predictable – and he didn't fool me for a second. I could see why he was saying all these things and how much he was hurting - because I was hurt. Which I was, incidentally. It hurt like hell and it wasn't his fault or anything, but Sam just felt so damned bad, like he'd failed me or something. That was the day I really started to feel like I was part of the team. It was also the day I nearly died, but that's an old story, and one you already know. Still, twice in one day is pretty good going, even by my standards, isn't it?

"It's because of the baby, isn't it?" Sam's hand comes out and clamps down on my shoulder. "It's okay, Deeks. I know what it feels like. It took us three years, you know? And it just hurts so damned much." And then he squeezes so hard that it feels like my bones are going to crumble under the pressure, but that's okay. In fact it's good, because I can concentrate on the pain and stop thinking about how very much it hurts to know Nell and Callen can make a baby without even trying. And we've tried so hard…

"No, it's not about the baby. It's about you, Sam." I don't want to know how he's guessed about the baby, but maybe it's just because he's been there and he knows all about it. That makes me even more certain that I did the right thing in asking Sam to be my best man.

We don't say anything else, mainly because if we did we'd probably just both break down like a pair of girls who are standing outside a Justin Bieber concert and can't get in. Although some people might think that's a good thing, of course. But I know I chose the right man for the job. I couldn't think of a better person if I tried for a hundred years. And it helps to know that there's another man who knows how I feel. If there is anyone I can trust with our secret, then it is Sam, because he's been there and he understands. And he got through it, and what's more came out the other side, not only sane but with a baby to boot. There has to be a lesson in there somewhere, doesn't there?


	44. Chapter 44

_Evil plot bunny has been whinging non-stop about the lack of maims in recent chapters, so I had to placate him somehow._  
><em>The result might not be quite what you expect though...<em>

* * *

><p>I'm no saint: I never have been and I certainly don't plan to become one anytime soon. In my book, martyrdom is seriously overrated, not to mention the downright painful death that is part of the job description. And then there is the not inconsequential matter of how it is so final. So terribly final, even if you do get a great write-up afterwards. Generally, I try to stay on the right side of the law. I guess there is still that much of the lawyer left in me, and I am still registered with the State Bar Association after all. I like to think of that as my insurance policy for the future – just in case. You never quite know what is going to happen, and it's always good to have something to fall back on, isn't it? Not that I can quite see myself getting back into those suits and ties, but you never know, do you? Come to that, I never saw myself settling down and planning a wedding either, which shows you exactly how much (or how little) I really do know about life.<p>

There's still a part of me that will always be a lawyer, I guess, although sometimes it gets buried pretty deep, what with all the stuff we do here in NCIS – like shooting first, mainly because it's either that or risk being shot yourself. Not that you have much choice, a lot of the time. Well, not if you want to stay alive and breathing and more or less in one piece, that is. Anyway, back in the days when I was still practising law, I thought I'd only be meeting up with the bad guys in court. I never dreamt I'd be chasing after them with a gun, or haring half-way across Europe, or even driving one of the coolest cars in LA with my even cooler (and yet hot at the same time) partner at my side. Of course, back then I knew even less about life than I do now, although at the time I thought I knew everything. Oh, the sweet arrogance of youth. I'm kind of rambling here, but the point I'm trying to make is that generally I try not to let my baser instincts take hold of me too often. This whole business with Darla is testing that resolve, though. It's pulling me in all sorts of directions that I don't like, and I'm doing my best to resist the lure, but it isn't easy. And there is no escape, not even at night. You see, I've started having these recurring dreams where Kensi and I go after Jack and we get him when he's alone…

I take the first punch, pulling my arm back and then smacking my fist forward into his face, so hard that I can hear the bone in his nose crunch into a hundred pieces. Just as he is staggering back, I stand to one side and let Kensi take out all her pent-up anger out on him. Kensi doesn't fight fair. It's worth saying that upfront. Generally guys do not kick each other in the junk. We might go for the knee to the groin in extreme circumstances, but usually we all hold to the unwritten tacit code: you don't mess with the gear. Kensi, as is only too obvious, is not a guy and therefore she has no such inhibitions – she just goes straight for the prize. I think girls usually fight dirtier than guys do. And they look a whole lot hotter when they're fighting too. Obviously. That goes without saying, doesn't it? What guy doesn't get a secret kick when watching a cat fight? (If any guy tells you he doesn't then he is lying. Take it from one who knows and who has also lied). Anyway, over the years I've seen Kensi unleash an eye-watering variety of different punches and kicks to the crotch to assorted unsuspecting men, who all tend to end up as somewhat less of a man once she is finished with them. Basically, Kensi could do an illustrated textbook on how to unman a guy. And if she's pictured wearing one of those little, tight black dresses with thigh-high leather boots, then that book is virtually guaranteed to be a best-seller. Come to think of it, if she wore a bikini instead, then it would definitely top the New York Times book lists. It might even rival the sales of that 50 Shades of Grey book, which isn't nearly as good as you'd think, by the way. To date, Kensi has never practised her crotch-kick on me, and I'm hoping to keep it that way. I haven't sung soprano for twenty years and I kind of like my stuff exactly the way it is. But when it comes to Jack Reynolds, then as far as I'm concerned, he deserves every single ounce of pain.

So, the way this dream goes down is as follows: the dream-me stands to one side like a complete gentleman and watches as Kensi inflicts her devastating kick on Jack. It goes like this: he's still semi-crouched over, hands over his face and assessing the damage to his nose (news-flash: it's broken, you moron. Didn't you hear the bone shatter when I punched you? Not to mention the small matter of the blood pouring down your face, which is always kind of a giveaway) so he doesn't see it coming. Which is a pity, because that kick is a thing of beauty and it really deserves proper attention being paid to it. Kensi gives this half-pirouette and lashes her leg forward to get the maximum amount of force at the moment of impact. And what an impact it is. She straightens her knee just a fraction of a second after her foot hits the target, just to drive the blow that little bit further home. The trajectory and velocity are perfect, and her aim is flawless. The result is that the force lifts Jack of his feet, he lets out an anguished squeal and his hands shoot down to cradle his ballst. Or rather, where his balls used to be, because I wouldn't be surprised if Kensi has managed to relocate them somewhere far up inside his torso. He staggers a bit before landing on his sorry butt and lies in the dirt, whimpering pathetically. Like I said, it's a great kick. It's the sort of kick you dream about. Which is what I'm doing, isn't it? I'm dreaming about my fiancée kicking her former-lover in the gear and I'm loving it. Now, that is weird. Seriously weird. I guess a shrink would have a field-day with my subconscious is telling me, and I'm kind of glad Nate is nowhere around.

I'd like to make it clear that it's only in my dreams that I take revenge –or rather where I watch Kensi take her revenge. She deserves to be able to give Jack just a little taste of the hell he put her though. I wonder what Kensi dreams about? Does she dream of beating Jack into the ground, or does she dream about watching me smack him stupid? It would be kind of interesting to know, but I'm not going there. Because this case is so personal to both of us that I have this feeling that if we ever talked about our dreams then it probably wouldn't take much to convince each other that we are above the law. We could justify our revenge and we could start to believe that we could get away with it. And we probably could.

That's another thing that frightens me. When you've investigated as many cases as I have, you learn an awful lot. You learn what to do and what not to do, if you know what I mean. That's possibly why there are some people in the law enforcement business who give into temptation and start to use that knowledge to swing the balance of probabilities in their favour. Those that are caught will tell you that they were just trying to make life just a little bit easier so that they could guarantee the right result when the case eventually goes to court. Oh, believe me: it would be so easy to take all that knowledge and to put it to good use. We could save a whole lot of time and money and get Darla away to safety that much quicker. Believe me, I am tempted. So the few nights when I don't dream about working Jack over, it's because I'm lying awake, thinking about how very easy it would be to ambush him and end all this right now. End it all permanently.

I told you I wasn't a saint and now you know how true that is. Right now I would happily strangle Jack Reynolds with my bare hands. Only I'm not going to, no matter how much I might want to. Once you take that first step outside the law, then the next step is even easier to take and before you know what is happening, there you are – you've become one of the people you used to arrest and send to trial. I've seen it happen too many times – good cops going bad - and I know how easy it is to give in to temptation. And then there is Darla. That's another thing that is stopping me, because if just one thing went wrong, then we'd be putting that kid in even more danger. So there is only one way to do things – the right way. We'll build a case against Jack that is stronger than Fort Knox. And then maybe I'll be able to sleep properly again. Until then, there is this part of me that wants to beat the crap out of him, and that part is growing bigger every day, so that I'm frightened I won't be able to contain it for much longer.

I've got a temper, you see. A really filthy temper. Normally I keep it pretty well-hidden and I guess people would probably describe me as an easy-going guy. Which I am – most of the time. But with my genetic background and less-than ideal parenting, there was no way I could escape scot-free, was there? I reckon I've actually come out of it all pretty well, and I've learned how to control my rage. Most of the time I do a decent enough job, but there's been a few times when we've e been working a case and it just all gets too much. Like when my last partner, Jess was killed. I lost it big time and I nearly did something really stupid then. I was this close to pulling the trigger and blowing away the guy who set her up, and nearly had me killed too. I'm not proud of that. And then when I worked undercover as Max Gentry, itt was like an excuse to give in to the dark-side of me, and just let my temper have free rein. The shameful thing is that I enjoyed it. It was kind of liberating. I actually liked being Max for a bit, because for once I wasn't hide-bound by convention and the societal norms. You probably didn't think I even knew words like that, did you? Far less be able to use them correctly. Hey – just because I'm letting you read about my life doesn't mean that I'm telling you everything about me. Give me a little credit, won't you? And, just for the record, I majored in Psychology back in my pre-law days. Which is another reason I don't want Nate getting inside my head – because I know too damned much. I know just how screwed up I am and how very easily it could all go terribly wrong.

* * *

><p>So, our investigation into the sordid life of Jack Reynolds continues, and each piece of evidence we uncover makes me feel just that little bit more nauseous. No, scrub that. The more I learn about Jack, the more I feel like heaving my guts up. The more I discover about him, the more I detest him. What Kensi ever saw in him beats me, although my guess is that she was still going processing a whole lot of emotions after her father died, and then Jack appeared on the scene – the older man, the Marine, just like her daddy. Or not. Sometimes it's a mistake to try to read too much into these things. I wonder what she sees in me? No, I'm not going there. I might not like the answers, you see.<p>

It turns out that Jack was still married to his wife the whole time he and Kensi were together. Clearly, he thought he could just start a new life, to the extent that he stopped paying the bills for his old life, leaving his wife and kid staring foreclosure in the face. Mrs Reynolds sounds like she had a lot of guts, because she did her best, going out and working two jobs and trying to keep things together, as best she could. It wasn't enough though. It was only when things got so bad that Darla came home from school one day with one of those back-packs full of enough food to keep a family over the weekend that Mrs R finally saw the light, got herself to a lawyer and filed charges against her scum-bag ex. So, there was Jack setting up home with my girl, building himself a new life (and don't forget that in the process he was systematically ruining Kensi's belief in herself, draining away all that confidence until she felt empty and worthless) and all the while his wife and kid were starving and one step away from going to a homeless shelter. What a guy. What a hell of a guy.

Now, it's a funny thing, but the Marine Corps doesn't really like its men skipping out on their family responsibilities like that. It doesn't sit very comfortably with the whole ethos of being a Marine, and it sure as hell doesn't do a whole lot for their image if it gets out that one of their own is a dead-beat dad. So, once the lawyers got involved and his whole new life looked like falling apart, jolly old Jack conveniently developed PTSD. Now, don't get me wrong: PTSD definitely exists, and it's a hell of bad thing for anyone to go through. But Jack no more had PTSD than I have a Marine buzz-cut. He just knew exactly what to do and precisely what to say and somehow he managed to fool some of the best doctors in the country – and Kensi too. And you know that Kensi is no knock-over, far less anybody's fool. She is a knock-out though – no doubt about that. Every time I look at her my stomach does this lazy back-flip and I wonder once again how I ever got to be so lucky. I just have to look at Kensi and I want her, which is great – but it's also kind of inconvenient at times.

Anyway, after a while, Jack decides to bale out on Kensi too. I guess maintaining a real relationship is too much like hard work for him, so when it gets too much, he just ups and leaves. A few months later, he resurfaces and goes back to the Corps and pleads a reoccurrence of his PTSD . Somehow wangles himself an honourable discharge. Maybe they just want rid of him with the least possible effort? After that, Jack starts building yet another new life for himself, only he doesn't bother even trying to see Darla at all. And then her mom dies. It's just one of these things that happen out of the blue – she has this massive brain aneurism. The weakness has been there since birth, like some freaking time-bomb just ticking away and one day it just bursts as Mrs Reynolds is walking out to her car. She collapses and is dead ten minutes later. There was nothing anyone could do. Given the amount of head injuries I've had, that actually makes me kind of nervous. You can only cheat fate and beat time for so long. And so far I've been lucky, only one day that luck it going to run out. It always does. The only thing in this world that it's not finite is love. Yeah – I'm in love and I've got it bad. So sue me. And then tell me you aren't as jealous as hell.

After her mom dies, Jack gets custody of Darla, on account of the fact he's her only living relative. Believe it or not, he's also managed to get himself this cushy number as a civilian contractor at Pendleton. Go figure that one out. And please tell me if you manage to make any sense out of it all, because I sure as hell can't. That's the other thing about luck - it's so fucking indiscriminate it could make you weep. If there was any justice in this world, Jack would be serving time already, but instead he gets custody and that's when all the trouble begins. According the school, Darla becomes quiet and withdrawn. Her grades drop and she doesn't seem to have many friends any more. They put it down to her mom dying, of course. I mean, who is going to suspect this upright ex-Marine of abusing his kid?

"The conniving bastard!" Kensi fumes when she learns about Jack's duplicity – all his lies and the general way the man has less morals than a skunk. Only that's unfair to skunks.

Actually, Kensi says a whole lot more than that; in fact she uses some very colourful language indeed, and what's more she uses no less than three different languages too boot. However, I've censored all that, because while it is undeniably interesting, it is also unprintable. Let's just put it this way – I am seriously impressed with the range and depth of Kensi's language skills. She is very inventive and never repeats herself once throughout her harangue, which impresses me even more. Is there no end to her talents? God, I hope not. And I'm looking forward to finding out in great detail, once we're alone.

"Do you feel better now?" Hetty asks solicitously, when Kensi finally has to stop in order to draw breath. Her face is actually kind of red and her eyes are wild and she has never looked quite so unrestrained or quite so desirable. Kensi, that is. Not Hetty. Just in case you were thinking that either the lack of sleep or my previous head injuries are doing strange things to my brain, I'd like to make it quite clear that I have never, not for one single instant, had any sexual thoughts about Hetty and I never will. Kensi, of course, is a different matter altogether. The day I don't have at least a hundred sexy thoughts about her is the day they declare me brain-dead.

"No." Kensi is standing there hands on hips, breasts heaving and looking so freaking hot it takes all my willpower not to throw her down on top of Hetty's desk and… And I'll leave the rest to your fertile imagination, because I'm not going to even think about one of my favourite fantasies when Hetty is standing right there. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I think she can actually read minds. Not really. Well, only sometimes. But I'm still not going to take that chance. Just in case. Because you never know, do you? Especially not with Hetty. Actually, I never know what to think when I'm with Hetty. Or even what to think about Hetty in general. Just when I think I've got her sussed, then she turns around and shows yet another side of herself. And now I come to think about it, that's kind of true about women in general – you just never really know and you never will know, so there's not much point in stressing about it or trying to make some sort of sense – you are much better just to go along with the flow. God, why didn't I realise that before? Life could have been so much simpler.

Hetty doesn't say anything in response to Kensi's monosyllabic response. She just raises one hand in the air and snaps her fingers and, hey presto - two seconds later, Callen and Sam are standing at the side of her desk. I wonder if she's going to snap her fingers again, make them both roll over and then sit up and beg, only I don't say that. Come on, of course I don't. I have learnt some subtlety, tact and discretion over the years. Not a whole lot I'll give you that, but enough to know that I need to keep my mouth shut right now. I'm not completely stupid and while Sam and I might be buddies, I still have a healthy respect for the guy. On account of the fact he is seriously big and consequently could do me some serious damage. Who wants to appear in their wedding photos with two black eyes and all four limbs in plaster?

"Miss Blye is in need of a serious workout, gentlemen. Can you oblige?"

They take one look at Kensi and then move smoothly into action, leaving her no time to protest, just linking their arms through hers and lifting her slightly off the floor before making for the gym at high speed. I just hope they know what they are in for, because Hurricane Kensi is not going to take any prisoners.

"Take a seat, Mr Deeks."

I do as I'm told. It's easiest that way, I've found, when dealing with women in general, but especially when Hetty is the one issuing the orders. Resistance is definitely futile where Hetty is concerned. Actually I find it almost impossible to resist Kensi too, but for entirely different reasons.

"Oh dear, this is all rather stressful, isn't it?" She steeples her fingers, all the while looking at me over the rims of her glasses.

Now, this is the sort of habitual understatement I have come to expect from Hetty, only today there is something different about the way she says it. Her voice almost sounds weary. And for the first time, I can see that Hetty is getting old. Normally, she seems kind of ageless, but today she looks old and she looks tired.

"Tell me about it." There's not really a lot more I can say in response.

"And then there is the wedding on top of all this. And the other matter too."

Oh yes, so there is. That would be the thing we never really talk about. We make general statements to other people, but Kensi and I only talk about it in private. "We're happy for Nell and Callen. Really, we are." And that's the truth. We are happy for them – but we're as sad as hell for ourselves. It's complicated, but that's just the way things are.

Hetty leans forward and smiles. "I know you are."

Say what you like about the woman (and I have, on several occasions) but nothing gets past her, and although she doesn't make a big song and dance about it, she has a heart of gold. Pure gold.

"We'll get there. I promise you."

That seems to reassure her, because she sits back with a contented air. "I'll hold you to that. And for God's sake – make sure you mail those wedding invitations tonight!"

Damn. I knew there was something I'd forgotten to do. It's all this not sleeping – or dreaming about Jack when I do sleep – it's doing things to my head. No matter, we can get them written tonight and then bring them in here tomorrow and dump them in the out-tray underneath a pile of other stuff. The way I see it, after all I've done for my country (including getting shot) for a ridiculously low wage, the least they owe me is the price of a few lousy stamps, don't they?

* * *

><p>After a couple of hours absence, Callen, Sam and Kensi return. She looks kind of subdued, almost embarrassed; Sam is trying not to smirk and not being terribly successful and Callen? Callen is walking very gingerly.<p>

"What happened?" Well, somebody has to ask, don't they? And it might as well be me. Besides which, I really want to know. I mean, I've got my suspicions, but I want them confirmed

Sam just puts his finer to his lips, not entirely hiding the smile that toys at the edges of his mouth; Kensi blushes and Callen just limps over to his desk in painful silence.

"You didn't?" I look at Kensi incredulously. I mean, I know girls have no inhibitions about the crotch-kick, but this is Callen, for crying out loud.

"I told you not to say anything!" Sam says, and shakes his head. Huh, he knew that would make me ask. In fact, I reckon he wanted me to ask. He's sneaky like that, is Sam.

"She did." After confirming my worst suspicions in a very subdued voice, Callen sits down gingerly, but can't quite manage to subdue a whimper as sensitive parts of his anatomy come into contact with the seat. Somehow I manage to refrain from offering him a cushion.

"It was an accident," Kensi protests. I get the feeling this isn't the first time she's said that to Callen. Maybe it's some kind of warped justice, seeing that wole pregnancy business was an accident too?

I guess it's time for me to leap into the breach. "Sure it was," I say soothingly. Come on, even Kensi wouldn't knee the senior field-agent in the balls on purpose, no matter how angry she was. Would she? Maybe it's time I poured a little oil on troubled waters? "Good thing you've got one baby on the way, Callen. You weren't planning on a big family, were you?"

Okay, that didn't quite come out the way I meant it to. Even if it is true.

Callen gives me this look of utter contempt, just as Hetty appears clutching an ice-bag, which she drops into his lap. Now, Hetty is small and it didn't have that far to drop, but it was kind of full and ice is heavy. So of course Callen goes green and doubles up and we're all trying very hard not to laugh. Except Callen, of course. Mainly on account of the fact he's too busy trying not to throw up to do anything else.

Basically, it's just another day at the office.

* * *

><p>"You'd never do anything like that to me, would you?" I ask Kensi much later on. It's night-time, but neither of us can sleep, so we're sitting outside, staring up at the stars and drinking beer.<p>

"What - give you a thunk in the junk?" she replies sweetly. "No – not unless you did something really stupid – like nearly dying on me again."

"Believe me, if you ever kicked me like that, I'd be happy to roll up in a little ball and die," I assure her. It's like every guy's nightmare.

"So I'll restrain myself." She nudges a little bit closer and once again I marvel at how two bodies can almost merge into one another. It's like we're two parts of a greater whole and that life only really makes sense when we are together. Kind of like the way my life only started to make sense when Kensi walked into it. It was like I'd been waiting for her for so long. Kensi just completes me in ways I'd never begun to imagine. "Because I can't imagine life without you."

"Me too."

So what if things are still kind of screwed up? We've still got each other and that's all that really matters. As long as we are together then we can face any odds, overcome any obstacles.

Her next statement comes out of the blue. "I have this fantasy, you know?"

Of course I do. I have them all the time. And if I'm very good, Kensi sometimes lets me act them out. So far she's not contributed any of her own though, apart from all the stuff with the handcuffs, which doesn't really count, because everyone does that – don't they? Likewise the feather and the mask. Anyway, that's kind of beside the point, because I'm really interested in where this conversation is going.

"You want to tell me about it?" And that way I can let the anticipation build up really slowly. I wonder if it requires any special purchases, or if we can just make do with stuff around the house?

"It's about Jack."

Okay, all passion is now officially extinguished. Talk about the ultimate contraceptive summed up in one four-letter word.

"Jack?" I say weakly, feeling decidedly deflated, in more ways than just one.

"Yeah. And today I kind of acted it out, because I was so mad and Callen just kind of got in the way."

"I dream about you kicking Jack in the balls," I confess. I'm feeling kind of guilty, like maybe it was my fault she whacked poor Callen, after I told her about imagining I was shooting Jack back on th target range at Pendleton.

"Really?" Her eyes sparkle wickedly. "Do I cream him?"

"Honey, you totally maim him. Nobody could do it better. You get him right in the sweet spot."

There's a short silence while she digests that and then give a guilty shake of her head. "I wonder how Callen's feeling tonight?"

It's a safe bet Callen's not feeling half as good as I am right now, on account of the fact all my gear is in perfect working order, plus I'm sitting out here with the hottest girl on the planet at my side – and who is wearing only a well-washed t-shirt that is practically transparent. There's a slight chill in the air and that shirt hides nothing at all, which is incredibly distracting.

"Sore"? I venture and let my hand move slowly up to curve around her breast. I don't much care how Callen feels right now, if you want the truth. All I care about is how amazing Kensi feels as we just melt into each other's kisses until the stars explode in the sky.

For the first time in weeks I actually sleep without dreaming of Jack.

* * *

><p>The next day Callen is almost walking normally, even if he is wearing rather loose-fitting pants. Sam is in first, as ever (he's slightly anal about being ultra-punctual – or "early" as the rest of us call it) and he's left his partner the thoughtful gift of a bunch of black grapes on his desk. Callen doesn't take that particularly well, but he's hardly in a position to do much about it right now. So basically things are getting back to normal, when I get this call from my buddy Ron over at Central.<p>

"Deeks? We've had this kid on the phone, asking for you by name. She seemed to think you were still working for LAPD."

Well, I am – technically. Only I've been on secondment to NCIS for so long that it's easy to forget that at times. I'm uncomfortably unaware of those papers Hetty gave me months ago and which are still sitting in my desk, just waiting for my signature. One of these days I really have to give some serious thought to signing them.

"What did she want?"

"Wouldn't say. Just asked me to give you a message from Darla. She wants to meet you this morning." Ron pauses for a moment. "And Deeks? She sounded awful young and awful scared." Experienced cops learn to hear when somebody is genuinely in need of help.

I thank him and scrawl down the details, aware that my heart is pounding fit to burst inside my chest. She's picked a coffee shop at the Burbank Mall for some obscure reason. It could be a trap. I mean, it's not beyond the bounds of possibility that Jack has got wind of all our careful plans – but I don't think so. Mt gut tells me that this is Darla and that she needs help. Now. And I'm going to make sure she gets it. I really don't like the thought of her hanging around in public by herself. Jack, for all his sins, isn't stupid and I kind of doubt Darla has managed to hide her tracks particularly well.

"Got somewhere to go," I announce, in as off-hand a manner as possible.

"Where?" Sam throws me this suspicious look.

"Coffee run." Which is the truth – sort of. If you squint a bit. It's just not the whole truth or even the exact truth. But I don't want to scare Darla off by arriving mob-handed. She asked for me and me alone – and I'm not going to let her down. And would you believe, I even manage to stick those wedding invitations in the out tray before I leave. Organised or what? And then I get the hell out of the bullpen before Kensi begins to smell a rat. She's going to kill me later on, I know that. She might even take the ultimate revenge and whack me in the lunchbox. Maybe I should stop by the sporting goods store on the way back and get myself some protection?

* * *

><p><em>Things are starting to move towards a climax now. The question is: will Deeks be in a fit state to enjoy it? Evil plot bunny is quite beside himself with joy at the amount of damage (both real and imaginary) inflicted in this chapter and is urging further devastation.<em>


	45. Chapter 45

_After a rather long gap, another instalment – and a really nice long one. My apologies for my absence – you wouldn't believe the job I had rounding up all the plot bunnies. But they are all present and correct now, and so the story continues._

_A huge and heartfelt "thank you" to everyone who has contacted me with good wishes – it is greatly appreciated._

* * *

><p>Now, you can say what you like about buying American, but this car is the business. I've never driven an American car that even comes close to my Porsche. Not that it's actually my Porsche of course, not really. Not in the sense that I technically own it (more's the pity), but after all this time it certainly feels like I do, even if the documentation states that it's federal property. It's kind of become part of me, of who I am. In a funny sort of way, it even helps to define who I am. Having the Porsche kind of validates the fact I'm not the new guy on the team anymore. I'm not even the guy who was dumped on them from LAPD on an informal, long-term loan, engineered by the sheer deviousness of Hetty. Now, while certain people in the department were probably only too happy to see the back of me (although I'd like to point out that rumours of parties celebrating my departure were just that: rumours. I think. In fact I'm almost positive about that. Please don't disillusion me on that score, okay?) I don't think my superiors had much say in the matter when it came right down to it. You see, Hetty can be very persuasive. Very persuasive indeed. It's rumoured that Leonid Brezhnev is one of the few people who actually had the guts (or maybe it was stupidity?) to defy the small but powerful one. That was way back in November 1982. And it's pure co-incidence that he died a week later. Of course it is. You just keep believing that and remember not to hold any guinea pigs up by the tail in case their eyes drop out and then we'll all be happy, won't we?<p>

Anyway, the Porsche is like a visible symbol that I'm part of a coherent whole, and even that I'm integral to the whole mix. Not that I'm kidding myself that I'm essential, or anything like that. If I was to leave, within days NCIS would be operating as smoothly as if I'd never been there - except in the memories. Sam was really cut up about that guy Dom for a long time, I know that. But life goes on – it has to. We're just players in a much bigger game and if we fall there are a dozen others just standing in the wings waiting to be called forward. I mean – this is OSP. This is the sort of gig people would give their eye-teeth to be a part of. Only that's kind of a bad metaphor isn't it? Given my experience in the hands of a guy who'd watched _Marathon Man_ one time too many. Larry Olivier has a lot to answer for. But when it comes right down to things, I know that I got lucky, because for some reason Hetty picked me to join the team. She picked me almost out of thin air. Don't ask me why, or what she saw in me. Or even how she found out I existed in the first place. I'm just glad she flexed her Machiavellian muscles and brought me into the fold.

Whatever. Right now, for better or for worse, I'm a part of NCIS and for the first time in my life, I actually feel like I belong. So why am I holding back on signing those papers Hetty kindly provided me with? The ones that she's already signed, that make me a bona fide federal agent, not a cop, the ones that are stuffed way in the back of my desk drawer, almost hidden underneath my four-hole punch? (I managed to sneak that little beauty out of the stationery cupboard right underneath Callen's nose and he's just about going crazy trying to account for it in the audit. I figure I'll let him stew for another week or so. Maybe two. A month at the absolute outside. Maybe then he might start ordering blue pens again) It would be so easy to just sign on the dotted line and make everything official, but for some reason I just haven't got around to it. I'm never going to go back to LAPD now, I know that. Once you've worked in OSP, everything else in law enforcement is going to be dull and routine. I guess it all comes down to commitment. I ran from that for years, but things are different now. Maybe I've even grown up a bit? And maybe it's time to show my team that I'm as committed to them as they are to me? The more I think about things, the more of an idiot I feel for procrastinating for so long. Sometimes I can be a really slow learner. It's a good thing I've got Kensi to keep me straight. But it's not like there's any rush. The papers are safe in my desk and I've got more important things to worry about right now.

What with all the deep thinking and soul searching I'm doing, the drive passes pretty quickly and before I know it, I'm at the Mall and Darla is waiting for me, near where the carousel used to stand. It's been years since I was here and I can't believe they got rid of that ride. Man, I used to love that carousel. It was one of my favourite things in the whole of LA when I was growing up. Recently I've even been imagining taking my own kid there one day- we'd have ice creams and then we'd each chose a horse and we'd just ride and ride. We might have even let Kensi come to, if she was good. Well, that's another dream shattered. Nothing stays the same, I guess, not even the really cool things. Which is a damned shame. I wouldn't have minded having a ride on that carousel today, even if I am a grown man. Technically. As far as I'm concerned there are some things you never grow out of. Being an adult is actually pretty crap a lot of the time. Not that my own childhood was particularly wonderful, in fact a whole lot of it sucked big time. Maybe that's one reason I'm looking forward to having a kid – so I can see him or her doing all these really great things for the first time and try to remember what it was like to be so little and to think the world is just this fabulous place, filled with fun. Then again, it might just be because I am a big kid. Or maybe it's because I love Kensi so much and I just want us to make a baby out of love? There could be a hundred different reasons, but in the end I guess it doesn't really matter _why_ you want a baby. You just do. That's just the way it is. There's nothing you can do or say that takes that longing away. Anyway, the carousel is gone and there's nothing I can do about that. I just hope that I can do something about the situation Darla's found herself in. Preferably before Kensi finds out where I am.

"You came!" There's relief written all over Darla's face when she sees me. "I mean, I wasn't sure that you would. Or even if you'd get the message. My Dad let it slip that you were an LA cop and I remembered your name - it's kind of unusual, isn't it? Anyway, I just took a chance and called them. Only they wouldn't put me through, so I just left a message. And I'm sorry, but I didn't know what else to do. You don't mind, do you?"

She's babbling, the words tumbling over one another in her haste to get them out, but I can sense the relief in her voice. And she's standing really close to me, and her hand comes out and grabs hold of my jacket sleeve, like she needs to touch me in order to convince herself that I'm real and not just some figment of her imagination. More than anything, I want to take her away to somewhere safe, but I can't- not yet. It could still be a trap and Jack could be waiting somewhere nearby, just ready to charge me with attempted abduction or some crap like that. Darla has to tell me she's in danger and actually come right out and ask for help.

"I got the message – so of course I came. And I don't mind at all." I want to put my arm around, only I can't.

"Your phone number's not listed. And neither's Kensi's. That was the only way I could think of getting in contact with you." Darla's apologising for using her wits? It strikes me that this kid is far too used to apologising for everything, starting with the fact she has the temerity to exist, and I can feel this slow burn of anger start to roil in my stomach. Then again, it might be that fish taco with hot sauce I had for lunch. I really wish Sam would chose something different when it's his turn to buy the food.

It's too public out here, we need to get inside the shop, just in case Jack's followed her. I wouldn't put anything past him, and that includes abusing his daughter – mentally and physically.

"How about we go get ourselves a coffee and we can talk properly? And maybe you'd like a sandwich?" If my hunch is right, Darla's run away and she's spent all her money on getting here. God knows when she last ate. And I don't even want to think about the possibility that she's been sleeping rough. I still have nightmares about the time Kensi spent living on streets and Darla isn't anywhere near as street-wise or tough as Kensi was. Kensi has her soft side, in fact she's full of tenderness. She just learnt to put up this protective shell around herself a long time ago, to stop herself getting hurt. But once I broke through it, all that love and compassion just came flooding out and made me feel like the luckiest guy on earth.

"That would be great!" Darla blurts out, confirming all my suspicions in an instant. Her grip on my arm tightens so that she's holding onto me like I'm a crucifix and she shoots me this look, full of trust and… and something else. Something that unsettles me. Darla is looking at me like I'm her own personal guardian angel, come down to earth especially to save her and my stomach clenches again. What if I'm wrong? What if I can't help her? Oh shit, what I have done, getting her hopes up?

I wait until we're sitting down in a booth right at the back before saying anything else. Darla is eating that sandwich like she hasn't a square meal for days, and I can't help noticing that her fingernails are gnawed almost raw. "So – why did you call me? Not that I mind – I'm just kind of curious."

She won't meet my eyes. "It was just something you said, back in the restaurant in Pendleton. I thought maybe I could trust you…" her voice tails off and she goes beet-red, pushing away the unfinished sandwich.

"You can. I really am a cop – see?"

I pull out my ID and show it to her discretely. And then I put the sandwich back in front of her. I'm glad one of us can eat, because right I feel like I'm going to be sick. Pendleton – ah yes, Pendleton. How can I ever forget that – the place where Jack popped up, just like the bad fairy at a christening. I remember exactly what I said to Darla in the restaurant: I told her to stay safe. It's the kind of thing most people wouldn't think twice about, but it's a message an abused kid is going to seize onto. Believe me on that.

"Darla – you can trust me. I want to help you. I'll do everything I can to help you. But I can only help if you tell me what's wrong." Does that sound like I'm begging? Actually, who cares if it does? Not me. All I care about right now is that I need Darla to talk about those demons and to tell me that she needs help.

That's when she starts crying, and the whole pitiful story comes out between sobs. Quiet, subdued gasps of emotion, because Darla has learnt her lesson well. She's learnt not to make a noise – because she knows the consequences if someone should hear her. _Scream quietly, so the neighbours don't hear_. And the pitiful thing is that despite her efforts to choke back the tears, Darla's whole body shakes with the emotions that are pulling her to pieces before my eyes. It's such a familiar story that it makes my heart ache, not just for Darla, but for all the unloved kids out there. It even aches a bit for the kid I once was, and the man I've become: the man who can't understand why two people who want a baby so desperately can't seem to manage to have one. Jack practised the twin dark arts of parental abuse: physical and mental cruelty. He screwed up Kensi, made her lose faith in herself and now he's screwing up his daughter. He should never have had a child. I wouldn't give him a goldfish to look after. I'm not a father, no I'm just the guy who has to sit in a coffee shop and listen as Darla tells me how he systematically destroyed her from the inside out, pulling apart all her fragile self-esteem and trampling it underfoot.

"I just couldn't take it any longer, you know?" She's stopped sobbing now, but the tears are still rolling down her face. Darla doesn't even bother to wipe them away and that gets to me. It's like tears have become such an integral part of her life that she doesn't even notice she's weeping any more.

Oh yes, I know. I know all about it. Only I got out and I was able to build a new life. I'm just glad that Darla has also managed to get out before she had to resort to shooting her father. Now, I'll be honest and say that there's a part of me thinks putting Jack out of his miserable existence wouldn't have been such a bad thing, but most of me remembers how absolutely crappy things were when I did just that, and how I felt like I was the worst kid on the planet. I'm glad Darla doesn't have to go through all that. At least she is spared that.

"You don't have to," I say, trying my best to sound reassuring. I don't think my voice wobbles, but I wouldn't put money on it.

"I can't go back." There is this look of utter terror on her face and it makes me want to cry right along with her, because no kid should ever have to feel like this. Darla should be going round the mall with her friends, spending her allowance on make-up and magazines and eyeing up the cute boys, not sitting here with me, pleading for help. "I just can't. I'll kill myself if you make me go back."

Oh yes, teens can be melodramatic – but if you were sitting in my seat, and you saw Darla's face and heard the emptiness in her voice, then I bet you would believe her too. She's like some wild animal that's been trapped: wide-eyed and trembling with palpable fear. I'm willing to bet that she's maybe even tried some self-harm, just to try to deaden the pain a little bit. Both times I've met her, Darla's been wearing long-sleeved tops, despite the weather. I'd put good money on the probability that her forearms are criss-crossed with an interweaving of fine scars. Sometimes when you hurt so much inside only physical pain can numb the agony and distract you from the tiger that is gnawing away in your stomach, tearing you apart from the inside out.

"Nobody is going to make you do anything that you don't want to. And you're not going back to that bastard. Not ever. I swear." I've never been so certain of anything in my life. "You're safe now."

"Really?" She looks she doesn't quite dare to believe that the nightmare is going to end.

"Really." I take hold of both of her hands and look her straight in the eyes. "You matter, Darla. You deserve to be safe and to have the chance to live a great life. It's not your fault, no matter what your Dad says. It's nothing you did or didn't do, and it's nothing you said that makes him act that way." I'd love to tell Darla that it's not her problem that Jack is a complete wanker, but even I know when to keep my mouth shut.

"I try to tell myself that, but…" her voice wobbles. "It's hard – you know."

"I know." And I do, because I was just like Darla. Only I didn't have half her courage. I only stopped my own cycle of abuse because it was shoot or be shot. Ray had drummed that into me: always shoot first. It was sheer self-preservation. Well, technically it was self-defense. That's what the court said anyway, and I wasn't about to argue with them, seeing as how I'd got a get-out-of-jail-free card, unlike my father. Nope, Gordon John Brandel's luck had finally run out and he was handed the card that says "Go to jail. Go directly to jail." And that was the day everything changed.

Darla's gaze is steady."He said nobody would believe me." Her voice is the ghost of a sound, like she confessing a sin.

That is the oldest and the dirtiest trick in the book. How many times did I hear that one? Just about every day.

"I believe you. And I want to help you. If you'll let me. You don't have to stay with him. Nobody is going to make you stay with him – not any more. There are places you can go, and people who will help you. Starting with me."

You know, sometimes, when I hear Callen talk about his foster homes, and how tough it was, it makes me wonder. For him, they were purgatory. For me the foster system was salvation. I can remember just feeling so darned safe, for the first time in my life. Actually being able to go to sleep at night, rather than lying awake and listening for raised voices or the footsteps that would stop outside my door. It was incredible. I grew a whole inch in the first month I was in care – that's the difference it made to me. Still, it takes all sorts, I suppose. The foster system gave me sanctuary. I'm hoping it can give Darla the same chance.

Darla blinks in surprise, but I think that deep down, she knew I would help. That was why she called me, because she could recognise a fellow traveller, one who had been right up to the jaws of hell, but who had escaped. "So you'll really help me?" There is still that note of hesitation, almost as if she is too scared to even dream anymore. That man - he's even made her feel guilty for dreaming. How could he destroy the bright hope of a young life? Simple - because he could. Because it made Jack feel big and powerful to dominate his daughter. Only she escaped. I offered Darla a chance and she was brave enough to grab it with both hands. Well, I'm not about to let her down. No way.

"I'll do everything I can. And you are never going back there – okay? It's just not going to happen. I'll give you my cell number, and any time you need me – you just call and I'll be there. Day or night. I promise."

"I believe you." Finally, she smiles, and it's like seeing a different kid – one who has just realised that there is a whole big world out there, just waiting for her, because all her horizons have just increased to encompass infinity. You see, we all need somebody to believe in, and who will believe in us. It's what makes life worth living.

And talking of that, we're going to have to make a move soon, or my own life definitely won't be worth living. Kensi will make sure of that. I noticed a Victoria's Secret shop in the mall on my way in and I'm kind of wondering if I should make a quick stop there to provide myself with an insurance policy. Only that would be kind of weird for Darla, and the poor kid is jumpy enough already, without her getting the wrong idea and thinking I'm some sort of pervert. Anyway, I'm just about to suggest we get going, when I check my phone, which has been on silent. There are half a dozen missed calls from Kensi, which isn't exactly a surprise, and a text from Sam. It is succinct and to the point:

"Beware."

That's not good. That means one thing, and one thing only: Kensi is on the warpath. Hurricane Kensi is about to land. I have a very healthy fear of her at the best of times, but especially when she is mad. I don't want to end up like Callen, after all. I like my body just the way it is, with everything in its proper place. Kensi does too, of course – only when she's mad she can kind of lose control, as Callen found out. Maybe I could remind her that we're still trying for that elusive baby? No, on second thoughts, it's probably best not to say anything at all and just grovel copiously. If nothing else, it will show Darla what a strong, confident woman can achieve: namely bringing a grown man to his knees with just a flicker of her eyes. Hey - she needs a strong female role model, and who better than Kensi?

"Is something wrong?" Again there is that look of abject terror on Darla's face.

Either I need to practice my poker face or this kid is acutely sensitive to things. Or possibly both. She's probably used to being blamed for anything that goes wrong, like a traffic light taking too long to turn green, or the fact that it's raining. "Everything's fine," I say, lying through my teeth with a breezy confidence I don't feel. As we leave the coffee shop, I decided that as I've been well and truly rumbled, there's no point in even bothering to buy the coffee I promised my team mates. Anyway, it would be cold by the time we get to the Mission.

All in all, I'm feeling pretty good about things right now, kind of like I'm a medieval knight on a white charger, swooping in to save a damsel in distress. It's probably got something to do with the looks Darla keeps shooting me when she thinks I'm not looking, her eyes shining with unadulterated hero-worship. I could kind of get used to this… Anyway, like I said, things seem pretty good right now. It's kind of cool to make a difference, to set wrongs right without actually having to shoot someone in the process. Not that I'd mind shooting Jack. Quite the reverse. It would be a positive pleasure and a service to humanity.

Of course, feeling good about myself was my big mistake. Pride going before a fall and all that. I really must make more of an effort and stop thinking things without actually taking the time to think them through properly. if you get my drift. Whenever I think without thinking, life turns right around and bites me on the butt. And right now, I've got the feeling that might actually happen for real, because when we get to the car who should be standing waiting for us, but Kensi and Monty? Yippeee. Let joy be unrestrained. Even from a distance it's obvious from the way she is standing (hands on hips and pissed expression, if you absolutely have to know) that Kensi is in a foul mood. Added to that is the fact that my dog isn't speaking to me at the moment, on account of the fact I de-fleaed him last night, and then cut his claws for good measure. It's hard to say which one of them looks more disgusted at me.

"Coffee, Deeks? Really?" It would be an understatement to say that Kensi isn't too impressed with my little white lie, but I'm guessing you can picture the look on her face. Let's put it this way: if I actually had bought us coffee, then the milk would have turned sour in an instant.

I hate it when people turn my little speech habit against me. Especially when it's imbued with sarcasm. Plus a Medusa glare.

"I asked him to meet me." Darla is back to being jumpy all over again, and that kind of pisses me off. Listen – I'm being the good guy here, and it's bringing back a whole heap of memories that I normally stick away in one of the darkest recesses of my mind, fenced around with razor wire and guarded by man-eating tigers, so I'm not really in a mood for recriminations right now. Of course, it's not like I have a whole lot of choice in the matter. Not if Kensi has anything to do with it. Unless, of course, I can head her off at the pass? Heck, it's worth a try, isn't it? Yup, that's desperation you hear in my voice. Well spotted.

"And now we're going back to the Mission to pick up the paperwork before we get Darla settled." You know, I'm quite proud of that little speech – I'm being calm and factual; I'm letting Kensi know that everything is okay, and I'm doing all that in one sentence. Pretty good, eh? In an ideal world, Kensi would smile, maybe give me a hug and say she was proud of me and… and who am I kidding? You know she's mad, and I know she's mad and Kensi thinks she's got every right to be mad, so it doesn't actually matter what I say. I don't know why I bother sometimes.

Kensi takes a step forward, and Darla sensibly takes one backward. I could take lessons from that kid. Maybe I should? "You could have told me."

Now, Kensi has a point. A very good point, actually, only I'm not going to admit that. "I wasn't sure how things were going to work out."

"Exactly," And now Kensi is so close our noses are almost touching. "It could have been a trap, Marty."

"But it wasn't." Why am I protesting? She's right. Again.

"Only I didn't know that, did I? No – because you've not been answering your calls and I've been worrying myself stupid that something's happened to you. Sometime you make me so mad. Even Monty's got more sense that you."

I look at my dog, who gives me a nonchalant look and then begins to lick his balls in leisurely fashion. I'd get hell if I did that, but somehow he manages to get away with it. It's probably best to change the subject. "You got Eric to track my cell phone, didn't you?"

"Damn right I did." And then she leans in just that little bit further and kisses me on the lips. It's kind of a chaste kiss, given we're in a public parking lot and in the presence of a teen, but it's enough to let me know I'm forgiven. "Just don't do it again, okay? Because you can never get away from me. Never. Remember that."

And then Kensi whacks me on the butt, just to drive the point home, before going over to Darla and links her arm through hers. "Come on. What are you waiting for? Victory?"

They snigger at this witticism, and for the first time Darla seems like a normal kid. I've got a feeling things might turn out alright. For me and for Darla. But just to be on the safe side, I'll buy Monty some liver on the way home, because he's still giving me beady looks. And it looks like I'm going to need some male solidarity, because Kensi and Darla are hitting it off big time. They're chatting like they've been BFFs and I'm feeling kind of surplus to requirements. _Sic transit Gloria mundi_, as they used to say. Ah, how quickly my halo has slipped. I'm right back down lying in the gutter – but at least I have a great view of the stars from here.

"You want to ride with me?" Kensi offers and Darla hesitates, clearly torn. Great, that means I'm going to be left with Monty, who gives me another disgruntled look, followed by a silent belch that manages to shake his whole body so hard that his front paws lift clear off the ground. Excellent. No doubt he's working up to some major farting too. Time to invest in some charcoal biscuits, I think.

Darla rubs the toe of her sneakers along the ground. "If you don't mind, I'd kind of like to ride with Deeks." Her head is down and she doesn't look at either of us.

Yeah well, I do have a cool car. I mean, what kid wouldn't want to ride in my Porsche?

Scrub that last sentence. It makes me sound like the type of creepy guy that hangs around schools, doesn't it? What I mean is that I still get a huge kick every time I start the engine and technically I'm an adult, even if Kensi says I'm more like a kid in a man's body. So, how can I blame Darla, who actually IS a child, for wanting to go in the Porsche?

Then again, maybe Darla is just taking the safe option, because she's heard about Kensi's driving? Really, there are times when I feel we should put out an alert to other road users. And while Sam has one of the strongest stomachs I've ever come across, he point-blank refuses to go in any car that Kensi is driving. He doesn't let me drive when we're together either, but that's because he's kind of insecure about things like another guy driving. I think it offends his masculinity. Me – I've learnt to roll with things. Most of the time. I still don't let Kensi drive home after we've been to the produce market, mainly because it's kind of cool to have all the eggs still safely inside their shells, rather than dripping everywhere. Monty disagrees, being kind of partial to raw egg, but he's only a dog, so what does he know? Yeah, so I let him lick up the eggy mess. I even helped him get into the trunk, if you really want to know.

Anyway, it doesn't really matter why Darla prefers to ride with me, does it? And I don't much care either way – all that matters is that Darla trusts me. And that kind of makes me feel good. Trust. Such a little word. So easy so say and so very hard to put into practice. I should know. I mean, apart from the whole "crappy childhood" bit. Most people take a while to trust someone – and boy did I find that out when I went to work at NCIS. There was Callen, refusing to let me take a clear shot in the nightclub on my very first outing with the team – and then damn near shooting me **and** the hostage in the process. Course, he came round pretty quickly when I saved his ass a day later. It took a whole lot longer with Sam.

Scrub that. It took years with Sam. It didn't matter what I said, or what I did – Sam just had a problem with me. It seemed like he had a problem with everything about me, starting with my hair. Now, personally I put that down to plain old jealousy, seeing as how Sam is what the Brits would call "as bald as a coot." And that isn't a compliment. I just don't get what is so great about having this big old pointy chrome-dome on display, one that's so shiny you can see your reflection in it, but I don't go on about it, do I? Well not in front of Sam at any rate. I'm not that stupid. Anyway, we got it worked out in the end, but there were a whole lot of times when it was pretty crappy. It's not a whole lot of fun knowing that the guy who is supposed to have your back doesn't trust you. In fact, it makes you start to mistrust him – and on it goes, winding in on itself, over and over again, like a distorted Mobius strip. Only that's in the past. That was then and this is now and Sam and I – we're good. I'd trust him with my life. And I kind of think that Darla has trusted me with hers.

You want to know the thing I'm most proud of? It's simple – I've never let my team down. Whether or not they knew it or even believed it, I've always been there for them, all the way. And I'm going to make sure that Darla knows I'm on her side, always and with no questions asked.

* * *

><p>"Own up. You told her, didn't you?"<p>

It's late at night, because it took a while to get Darla settled. It turned out that Hetty just happened to be on first name terms with the head of Child Services, and together they got the kid into this really nice place - a home, not a hostel. She looked happy when we left, standing there on the porch, with her foster Mom and Dad at her side, like they were already supporting her. So it was a pretty great day and it's been an amazing evening too. Put it this way, I'm sprawled across the bed, still in that pleasant haze you get after a meaningful encounter. I could stay like this for ages, only Kensi has other ideas. I fact, she's bounced to her knees and is prodding me just underneath the ribs.

"Told who what?" That's not particularly grammatical, but then I'm not entirely concentrating, mainly because Kensi is naked and my mind is elsewhere.

"Talk to my face, not my breasts." This instruction is accompanied by a prod that almost goes right through the intercostal space. It seems safest to drag my gaze upwards.

"Who did I tell? And what did I tell them?" There are times when resistance is futile. One of those times is definitely when you're in bed with a hot girl. I learnt that one the hard way.

"You told Darla about my driving, didn't you? And it's not that bad."

It goes without saying that I am not going to answer that second statement. Mainly because Kensi's hand has moved southwards and I'm kind of partial to keeping my gear in working order.

"I didn't say a word. Scout's honour."

"You weren't a Scout. No way."

"Way." I snap my fingers up into a salute.

Kensi looks at me through narrowed eyes. "Go on them – recite the Scout Oath.

I struggle up into a sitting position, because it just feel plain weird to say this lying down, rather than standing to attention. Old habits die hard. of course, a part of me is standing to attention, but you'd already guessed that, hadn't you?

"On my honour I will do my best  
>To do my duty to God and my country<br>And to obey the Scout Law;  
>To help other people at all times<br>To keep myself physically strong,  
>Mentally awake and morally straight."<p>

It's funny how some things stay with you – like that promise and the memories of all those Scout meetings. I started going along when I went into the foster system – they thought it would be good for me. And it was. It gave me a sense of belonging and it opened up a whole new world of opportunities.

"Wrong!" There's a certain look of triumph in Kensi's eyes – along with something else I can't quite put my finger on. That might be because she's pushed me back down so that I'm lying flat on my back, with my arms pinned above my head and she's sitting right on my groin. Putty in her hands, that's what I am. God, my life is so great sometimes.

Come on. That was perfect. "No way!"

"Way!" Kensi smirks. There's no other word for it.

I'm not letting this go down without a fight. And I can fight dirty. "I was word perfect." Wasn't I?

"Did I say you weren't?" Kensi put on a 'deep thinking' look. "Nope, don't think I did. But you still failed. And failed big time. They might even make you send your badges back."

Like that's going to happen. I worked damned hard for those badges. Although they can have the scarf back, if they really want. It never really worked for me. I tried putting it on Monty as a bandana one time, but it wasn't his bag. It wasn't his colour either, come to that. "Exactly how did I fail?" Come on, I had to ask. You would have asked too – wouldn't you?

"Well, I can go along with all that stuff about helping people, and being physically strong – but morally straight?" For good measure, or maybe just to drive the point home, Kensi wiggles her hips provocatively and I respond automatically. Just like she knew I would. So I'm predictable? So what.

"You've got a point." I really am going to have to make an honest woman of her. if nothing else, I owe it to the Boy Scouts.

"I always do."

Sometimes you have to know when to accept defeat gracefully. This is definitely one of those moments and I'm afraid there is nothing else for it but to lie back and let Kensi have her wicked way with me. Again. It's a hard life. And I wouldn't change it for anything.

* * *

><p><em>Whew! Told you that was a long instalment. So, that's Darla safe and Kensi and Deeks safely in bed once again. All is right with the world. Now, all they have to do is finalise those wedding preparations, and with the combination of Hetty and Kensi's mom, what can possible go wrong?<em>

_Well, apart from slushy plot bunny wanting to be a bridesbunny, not a single thing. Because organising a wedding is totally relaxing and brings people together, doesn't it? And that's why evil plot bunny is sniggering away._


	46. Chapter 46

_Oh my goodness… the plot bunnies and I would like to thank everyone for the amazing welcome back here to fanfiction. It was so lovely to get all your reviews, alerts and pms. I'm overwhelmed – so thank you all, once again._

* * *

><p>Have you ever played buzz-word bingo? No? Really? How on earth do you manage to get through those self-development courses every employer seems to make their hapless staff attend? You don't actually listen to all that "blue sky thinking" stuff the management gurus go on about, do you? Take my advice, make up cards for every one attending and fill in the squares with the buzz words of the moment. You know, things like "continual improvement", "blue sky thinking" and "core values." Maybe you might want to consider pushing the boat out a bit and add in "paradigm shift", "portfolio of portable skills" or even "lifelong learning". And then you can sit back and watch as all your colleagues listen avidly to the speaker, each one intent on getting the first straight line, four corners, full house or whatever. Now, that really is pushing the envelope. I guarantee that meetings will never be the same again.<p>

If all else fails, cultivate an interested expression and simply let your mind drift off. Just make sure you don't fall asleep. Management types tend to take it quite personally if doze off, even if you have a perfectly good reason, such as having been up all night on a stakeout. Now, I've nothing against learning, as long as it's relevant. So NCIS has a mission statement and core values? Whoopee. So do I, only in my case they amount to the same thing – always shoot first, and try not to get killed. That's worked pretty well for me so far, so I don't really think I need some kid fresh out of business school telling me how I can become a more valued employee by remembering that there is no "I" in "Team". I had that one down pat by the time I was six years old. The really depressing thing is that those management gurus probably get paid at twice as much as I do. Clearly, there's good money in all that blue-sky thinking working. Looks like I made the wrong career choice. Again.

Like I said, it's not that I'm against learning: quite the contrary. You don't get a law degree without a heck of a lot of hard graft. You do get a huge amount of debt though. No, it's just that I've sat through far too many of so-called development courses and come away with nothing more than a sore butt from the hard chairs, a free pen and handful of business cards at the end of it. So forgive me for being sceptical. It's just that in my experience the most valuable lessons you learn are the ones that come from real life. Take this week for example: I discovered exactly why a honeymoon is an essential part of every wedding. After the bride and groom, it's possibly the most important part of the whole affair. And no, it's not because of the promise of unbridled sex. Oh no. Not at all. You couldn't be farther from the truth if you tried.

The real reason you need a honeymoon is because you are so damned exhausted by the whole process of organising a wedding, so beaten down by every convoluted, ridiculous detail involved in getting married that you need a holiday at the end of it. And during the preparations there are many times when what you really need is to lie down in a darkened room, all by yourself, well away from everything and just try to forget about it all. It helps if you have heavy-duty drugs too. If all else fails, you have my permission to bury your head in the pillows and pretend the world doesn't exist.

I, of course, have none of the above – no solitude, no peace and definitely no drugs, other than the Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet and Monty's conditioning tablets. You'd better believe me - there isn't enough Tylenol in the world to make this better, so I'm seriously contemplating the dog's pills. If all else fails I should end up with a nice shiny coat. However, what I do have is the original immoveable object, only multiplied threefold. No matter how hard I try, there is no way I'm going to win. Essentially, I'm a dead man walking.

Cynical? Me? Okay, let me paint you this picture: I am, sitting in my living room with Kensi, her mom and Hetty. Got that? Here I am, trapped in a room with three women intent on arranging a wedding. My wedding. Three strong-willed women with very definite ideas, let me add. You might call them bloody-minded, but I couldn't possibly comment. Mainly because at least two of the three can seriously incapacitate a grown man with just their pinky fingers. And Kensi's mom looks like she'd be kind of handy too, given that she's pretty fit. Not that I think of her in that way. Of course I don't. Not if I can help it, because that would be all sorts of wrong, wouldn't it? And besides, Kensi would kill me. And she'd probably take great pleasure in killing me very slowly. Mind you, given the way all three of them are looking at me right now, there's a fair chance I might not be long for this world anyway.

Don't get me wrong – I like women. Of course I do. I just don't like being outnumbered by them– and in my own home too, which makes it worse. Monty took one look at the triumvirate and sensibly snuck out to the garden with his tail between his legs. I know exactly how he feels. If I had any sense, I'd have followed him and saved myself a whole lot of grief. You know it's a bad day when your dog shows more sense than you do.

"So, what are you wearing?" Kensi's mom asks as her opening gambit, in a friendly tone that doesn't fool me for an instant, mainly because her eyes are flashing danger signals. This is her little girl getting married, after all and all the protective instincts are well and truly to the fore. It's not helped by the fact that she still thinks of Kensi as a pre-teen, almost as preserved in amber, forever the same age as when the Blye family was still together. All those years they spent apart can never be recovered and the past and the aching pains of guilt they each feel seems to colour every word that passes between them.

"What am I wearing?"

It's like there is an echo in the room, which is strange because I'm really trying not to sound too stupid. Isn't it obvious what I'm wearing? Julia is sitting right in front of me after all. It's not like she's on the other end of a phone. Just to clarify, I'm wearing exactly what I wear most of the time, namely jeans and a t-shirt. This shirt is a little snugger than I would normally wear, but there's a good reason for that, seeing as how it's actually one of Kensi's shirts. And no, I haven't got into cross-dressing. You see, we were kind of busy when the doorbell rang, having got slightly distracted and completely forgotten we'd arranged for Hetty and Julia to come over so we could finalise the wedding plans. Actually, I'd deliberately forgotten. Or maybe I'd deliberately wiped it out of my memory? We were also both naked at the time, so I just grabbed the first thing that came to hand and pulled it on. It's a good thing it was just her shirt I picked up, because if I'd tried to squeeze into Kensi's jeans then the chances are that the most we'd have been doing on the honeymoon was playing scrabble.

"What are you wearing at the wedding, Mr Deeks?"

Is it my imagination, or is there a slightly edgy tone to Hetty's voice? And why is she looking at me in that way – as if she is a teacher and I am one of the less-able students? How was I supposed to know that was what Julia meant?

"Uh – a suit. Kind of. I guess." Well, that was an impressive defence, Deeks. Not. Silver-tongued eloquence well and truly to the fore.

And then it's like I'm fair game. It's open season right here in my living room and I am the target. The questions are flying around me like lead shot on a Scottish grouse moor or the 12th of August. They're coming so fast, I don't have a chance to open my mouth and come out with any retorts, but you can be sure I'm thinking plenty.

"What sort of suit?"

Uh – how about the normal sort – you know, complete with pants?

"You **are** wearing a tie, aren't you?"

Why – are you, Julia? Are you worried we'll look like twins?

"Bring it out here and let us look at it."

_Et tu_, Hetty? Or should that be "et three?" No matter. What I want to know is this: whatever happened to bosses defending their employees? Did I miss the memo rescinding that little tradition? Maybe I should start paying more attention at those courses? Or maybe not. I kind of like having all my brain cells in good working order.

Okay, Hetty wasn't asking a question, was she? Oh no, it was a command. And that's when I dig my heels in. Literally, actually. I really am digging my heels down into the rug, because otherwise I might just get up and walk out. Time to play them at their own game, I think.

"So, what are you wearing, Hetty?"

"A suit," she answers, in the tone of one who has always and moreover will always wear a suit. I'm almost certain Hetty has legs underneath the pants, it's just that nobody has ever seen them. Or should that be "nobody has ever seen them and lived to tell the tale"?

I'm just about to try and turn the tables, maybe glean a few more details from her, just to make sure we're not going to clash or anything like that, when Kensi's mom pre-empts me neatly. "I haven't quite decided on my outfit yet. But it will be tasteful. You don't need to worry about that." Really, that woman is sneaky. I can see exactly where Kensi gets it from. "

So, there I am, cut off neatly at the pass by the elder of the Blye women, which means there's nothing left to do but turn to Kensi and appeal to her better nature. Or rather, her competitive spirit. "Okay – here's the deal. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours."

Only that didn't quite come out the way I meant it. Well it did – but I really didn't want to say that in front of Julia, did I? Mildly salacious innuendos are probably not the way to endear yourself to your future mother-in-law, after all. Surprisingly enough (and much to my relief), she just smiles at me. Kensi, on the other hand, blushes furiously. Now, that's interesting. I didn't know Kensi could blush. I thought she was beyond blushing. I must file that away for future reference, along with the fact that Julia is a good sport. It wouldn't surprise me if she was quite a girl, back in the day. Not that she isn't still quite a girl… Nope, I cannot think about Julia like that. Not ever. No matter how hot she looks. She is my fiancee's mother, after all. A thought strikes me: supposing Julia shares the same taste in men as her daughter? I am so doomed, because I've got this nasty feeling Julia could be a good deal of a cougar. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery – please. I'm begging you.

"You can't see my dress before the wedding." Kensi's voice breaks into my thoughts, which is just as well, given the direction they were heading in.

You know, some people think I talk too much, which is kind of strange, because what comes out of my mouth is nothing compared to what goes on inside my head. Only I can't stay quiet on this one.

"Why not?"

It's a good question, isn't it? A very good question. Exactly who made up this rule? I bet it was a woman, don't you? Anyway, I don't really care what Kensi wears – just as long as she turns up and says "I do." That's all that really matters, right?

"Because." Kensi stares at me, begging me to challenge her. Come on, she really should know me better than that. Or is all this talk of weddings just turning her brain to mush? "Just because," she adds emphatically, just in case I hadn't got the message first time around.

Julia makes a noise like she's choking, or something and Hetty's mouth is making these really strange movements. I reckon that either she's about to be sick, or she's trying not to laugh at the fact that Kensi has been reduced to the retorts of the kindergarten.

"Because isn't a reason, Kensi. It's a conjunction." Yes, I know. I should have stopped after the first sentence, shouldn't I? Or, better yet, kept my big mouth shut. Only I couldn't resist the temptation. And it was a great line. You've got to give me that much.

Kensi's face is set. It's impossible to read what she is thinking. Clearly she's been spending too much time with Hetty. Either that or there's another NCIS course I've missed – Impassivity as a Lifestyle Choice. Or maybe it was Frying Your Enemy's Brain By Thought Alone. I wonder why I never get to go on the really interesting courses?

Okay, I can see that it is time for a quick appeal to her better nature. Yup, when all else fails there is nothing, absolutely nothing quite like grovelling, no matter how undignified that might be. I'm just glad Monty isn't here to witness my downfall.

"Don't you trust me, Kensi? I mean, this is our big day – the start of the rest of our lives together. I just want it all to be as perfect as you are."

Hideously corny, isn't it? In my defence, I think I heard those lines on a soap, probably when I was on sick leave, and filed it away for future reference. Only, the thing is – the moment the words are spoken, I realise that I actually mean them, so help me. I mean every single word. She's all that matter and if I have to wear some boring, sober suit, then so be it. If that makes her happy, then that's what I'll wear.

As she looks at me, I can see Kensi soften. And it might just be the way the light is striking the lenses of her glasses, but for a moment I could almost swear that there are tears in Hetty's eyes. Only that's ridiculous, isn't it? Because Hetty doesn't cry. Does she?

"You might almost be good enough to marry my daughter." Julia gives me a weak smile. "But for heaven's sake, just make a bit of an effort and look smart on the big day? Alright?"

"I'll make sure of that."

Hey, I'm not about to let the side down, am I? It's my wedding day too, after all. And that's something that often gets lost in the mix, I've found. The poor old groom is just supposes to turn up – almost like an optional extra. Weddings are all about the bride, after all. Of course they are. Who on earth is going to look at me when Kensi is there? If she looks one tenth as beautiful then as she looks right now, with those stars in her incredible eyes, then I'm not going to get a look in. And that's just fine. That's the way things are meant to be. Only a part of me still thinks that Callen had the right idea when he and Nell eloped to Vegas. No hassle over what he was wearing and a honeymoon in Sin City into the bargain. Utter bliss. If that's what you want. All of a sudden it strikes me that Kensi and I want to be with all our friends. It wouldn't be the same if we couldn't share the day with them. Plus Julia and Hetty, of course. No, you can keep Vegas – we're getting married up in Napa, with everyone we care about around us. We're going to make memories and share them, so that in years to come we can all talk about how great it was, and how beautiful Kensi was. I've learnt that once the people who share your memories are gone, then the memories start to disappear too. Not that there's a whole lot I actually want to remember about my childhood, but there were some good bits. Only I don't have anyone to share them with any more, so it's like there is this whole chuk of my life that is missing.

"Well, now that's settled, I think we can move on to the matter of music." Hetty takes a deep breath. "Julia had an interesting idea." I have to give Hetty credit – she barely flinched when she said that but she couldn't quite keep the ominous tone out of her voice.

"Oh. Really?" I'm almost certain I don't want to hear this.

Julia is wreathed in smiles. "Can you sing, Marty?"

Of course I can sing. Why would anyone ever think I can't sing? Only, just as I'm opening my mouth to refute this, Kensi speaks up, loud and clear.

"Aw, Mom! Please? I asked you not to say anything." It's kind of weird to hear her voice, instead of my own but at the same time I can't help smiling, because Kensi just sounds so cute – kind of like a little kid. I've never seen this side of her before.

"Not say anything about what?" Yes, that is hopelessly ungrammatical, but even I can't be perfect all of the time.

"You don't need to know, because you can't sing and it's **so** not happening." If looks could kill, Kensi's eyes would ignite Julia into a small, smoking heap. It would probably ruin the sofa though, which is probably why she holds back from any actual physical harm. Not to mention Kensi's precious sofa pillows.

Wait a minute. Just rewind that for me. "What do you mean, 'I can't sing', Kensi? I can sing." Of course I can sing.

"Okay – so you can sing. But the point is that you're not going to sing at the wedding, because you can't manage to sing in tune."

I'm going to pretend she never said that, mainly because it's not true. Of course I can sing. Can't I? Let's look at the facts: I was lead singer in my group. Lead singer. Actually, I was the only singer. Of course, the guys amped up their guitars pretty much to the max, and my mike wasn't that powerful, but that is totally not the point. It's not like they planned it that way, or anything like that. And in any case, who appointed Kensi as singing monitor? Her criticising my singing is a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you really must know. Not that I'm going to say that – not if I want to keep living and breathing and with all my limbs in good working order, that is.

"I don't want to sing at the wedding." Why on earth would Julia think I would want to do something like that? Who in their right mind would want to do something like that?

Kensi leans over and kisses me. "Thank the Lord."

"Why would I want to sing at the wedding?" I just can't help myself – I've got to know.

"Mom had this idea that we could record a track together for our first dance."

"Oh. Right." There's not a whole lot more I can say to that. Well, actually there is, only none of it is printable.

"Have you seen _Moulin Rouge_?" Julia asks, clearly hoping that her plan (whatever it is) might still stand a chance of coming to fruition.

"Uh huh." In situations like this, I've found it's usually best to say as little as possible, for fear of committing myself. Of course, I usually ignore my own good advice. Today is no exception. "But I can't see Kensi getting down and dirty to _Children of the Revolution_ in a long white dress."

"Julian thought you and Kensi might sing a duet," Hetty says, making it perfectly clear she had nothing to do with this hair-brained scheme.

"Really?" Some people might say I overuse this word, but it covers a multitude of circumstances, I've found. It's short, it's to the point and you can convey a whole host of meanings, just by varying the intonation. I chose deep disbelief this time around. With a slight underlay of dismay.

"The love duet - _Come What May_." Julia sways slightly as she says this, like the music is playing in her mind. "It's a beautiful song. _And I will love you, till the end of time_." Her voice isn't bad. It's just not particularly good. It's kind of warbly, if you really must know.

Kensi shakes her head. "It's great, and I know it's your favourite song, Mom - but we're still not singing it – because Deeks can't sing."

It's funny how nobody is commenting on Kensi's singing voice, isn't it? No, for some reason this is "Pick on Deeks Day". Still, seeing as how she's no keener on the idea of a duet than I am, I decide just to let that matter slide. It seems safest that way. Slightly embarrassing, sure, but that's a small price to pay, given the circumstances. I'm conscious that I've got out of making a public exhibition of myself by the skin of my teeth. Looking back, I wonder if this was all just a ploy, softening me up, so that I'd agree to pretty much anything else that they suggested. Not that I'm suggesting they were lulling me into a false sense of security, or being devious and manipulative, or anything like that. Of course I'm not.

"Is that it?" And can you tell you desperate I am to get out of here?

"Why no, Mr Deeks. We've barely started. There's the small matter of the music, you see."

Foiled again. We could be here for hours. Days even.

"How do you feel about harps?" Julia asks. I'm going to be charitable and say that she is probably feeling bad about the way me and my voice have been held up for ridicule.

"As long as I'm not the one playing the harp and wearing a pair of wings, then I feel fine about them," I assure her. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought you might like to consider beginning the ceremony with some harp music. It would sound rather lovely in the courtyard setting, don't you agree?"

Kensi agrees. Kensi has this look on her face like all her dreams are coming true. "Oh yes!"

Fair enough. If that's what she want's then who am I to argue? I'm told that most girls dream about their wedding day for years, and of course guys don't do anything like that. Well, sometimes we might think about the girl and what she might be wearing underneath that long, virginal dress, but believe me, we don't exactly go into the finer details of what colour the seat covers should be (and who knew you got covers for chairs? With bows on them? That cost an absolute fortune, I might add and have no further purpose once the wedding is done. Unless you are either Liz Taylor or a polygamist and can re-use them a couple of dozen times to get your money's worth) thinking about the wedding lingerie in loving detail is and entirely different matter, and perfectly normal for a red-blooded male.

"So that's settled. I think I know a harpist who will oblige." Well, of course she does. Who would expect anything else from Hetty? Knowing her, she probably has about ten of the creatures just ready and waiting in the wings. "So, that just leaves the small matter of the first dance. Have you chosen the song yet?"

"We've already got that covered."

"And it's staying top-secret, so don't even bother to ask, okay Mom? Hetty? No questions – at all. We want to surprise you both."

Amazingly, Hetty just nods her head meekly, and folds both her hands neatly in her lap.

"Can you dance, Marty?" Julia gives me a quizzical look. I've got a feeling Hetty has been talking out of class.

"I can dance," I say with a breezy assurance that I don't feel. It's okay for Kensi . First of all, there's the fact that she can actually dance. And then there is the fact that she's going to be wearing a long white dress, so nobody will actually be able to see what her feet are doing. Whereas I – well, I'm going to make a complete fool of myself, aren't I, if I try anything more than shuffling round the dance floor. I'll count the first dance a success if I don't break any of Kensi's toes.

"You might want to give him a few hints," Hetty advises Kensi. "And make sure he practices. We don't want him treading on your feet like last time."

Yes, it's definitely Pick on Deeks day. Maybe next time they could warn me in advance and I'll just order myself a hairshirt?

"Maybe I could help? You see, I used to be a dance teacher." There is a yearning note in Julia's voice, and I realise that she probably taught Kensi to dance in the first place, and that dancing was something they used to do together. And, more than that, it strikes me that perhaps dancing can bring mother and daughter back together once again, with the music providing a bridge across the endless dance of time and the chasm of all the empty years that still lie yearning between them. It's worth a try. And let's be honest – I need all the help I can get.

"I'd appreciate that, Julia. It's really kind of you." Well, what else could I say? And the added bonus is that this way Julia and Kensi get to spend a bit more time together and maybe they might even be able to try and bridge that gulf a little? They love each other, I know that – but they just can't seem to get away from the past. There is so much that lies between them and gets in the way of their love. And yet – the bond is there.

"Me too, Mom." Kensi slips her hand into mine and squeezes tightly. "We're really going to get married, aren't we?"

"Definitely. You don't want to talk about the flowers?" Come on, give me some credit. You know I'm not interested in the flowers and I know I'm not interested in the flowers, but I'm trying here, I really am.

"Not unless you really want to. I've got my flowers picked and we thought we'd use the same theme for all the table decorations and swags, if that's okay with you?"

"Of course it is." Swags? What are swags when they're at home and why are we having them at our wedding? "I just thought…" And my voice tails off, because this is kind of embarrassing. Not, actually it is all sorts of embarrassing.

"Yes?" Hetty is leaning forward expectantly, and her voice is calm and encouraging. And Kensi edges her thigh against mine, so I reckon it's safe. This is my family, after all – or it will be. If I can't trust them, then who can I trust?

"I saw this thing once… in a magazine. I mean, it was a photo. In a magazine. Of a wedding." The power of coherent speech seems to have deserted me. Deep breath, Deeks. You can do this. They three women in my life sit there, waiting and looking at me expectantly. "And they had these trees, you see. Little trees, kind of cut into cone shapes and with loads of those little white lights on them. And I just thought that was kind of great."

I feel like a complete idiot. I definitely sound like one, don't I? Trees cut into fancy shapes? Fairy lights? If Callen or Sam ever hear of this, I am dead meat. I definitely need to learn to keep my big mouth shut. Maybe I should get my jaws wired together or something?

There is complete and utter silence. You can almost hear the tumbleweed blow across the lonesome prairie. Why doesn't the ground just open up now and swallow me whole? And then there is a collective sigh, as all three women exhale in unison. If I didn't know better, I'd think they had planned and rehearsed this.

"I can't believe you said that."

No, neither can I, Kensi. You'd think by now I would have learned when to shut up, wouldn't you?

Only (and I can't quite believe this) she is totally sincere. More than that, she's incredibly moved. So much so that her voice is actually trembling. "I mean – that is just the most gorgeous thing I've ever heard. Don't you think so, Mom."

"Oh yes. I think it sounds perfect. Just perfect." Julia leans over and pats me on the knee. "Bless you, Marty. You're a dear, thoughtful boy."

Note to self: it appears that getting in touch with your feminine side is not a sign of weakness. And it goes down a treat with the real women in your life. I must remember that one. It's probably best not to overuse the technique though. Once is probably enough. Once is more than enough.

"There's just one last thing." Kensi is gripping onto my hand for grim death and I can actually feeling the bones starting to rub against one another in a highly disconcerting fashion. "I've got a favour to ask you, Mom. A really big favour."

"Anything. You know that, darling. You can ask me anything at any time. " There is this wistful timbre to Julia's voice that brings back these echoes of a violin – an overwhelming undertone of sadness amidst the sweetness. You just know she would do anything for her daughter – the sad thing is that I'm not sure if Kensi realises that – or if she knows how much she is loved.

"It's just that… well, you see the thing is, I've been thinking. Well, we've both been thinking actually. Me and Marty. About the wedding, I mean."

We have? That's news to me. Yes, it's official: Kensi is gabbling. But that's okay, because I think I know what she's going to say. It's something she needs to do. Even better than that, it is something that Kensi wants to do, and wants it with all her heart, even if it is incredibly difficult to put into words, far less say them out loud. For so long, Kensi hid her feelings from everyone, kind of like a survival technique and it's a hard habit to break. I want to help her out, but I know that I can't. It's up to Kensi: she has to do it all by herself. All I can do is sit beside her, will her on and try not to wince as the pressure from her fingers increases so that I can almost hear the bones in my hand being pulverised into dust.

Kensi hitches in a deep breath and I can feel her body grow tense. Come on, sweetheart, you can do this.

"Would you walk me down the aisle, Mom? Please? Because I love you and I want you to be beside me. All the way. "

There is a long and very awkward silence, and Julia looks as if she can't believe what has just happened. And then she sits up very straight and takes hold of Kensi's hand. "Oh Kensi. My darling girl. You've made me so very, very happy." And as I watch her eyes fill up with tears, but that's okay, because they are tears of joy. And it's even better when Kensi starts to cry too, because she's crying in her mom's arms, which is something that hasn't happened for nearly 20 years. Oh, and because Julia is stroking her hair and whispering in her ear. It's taken a long time, but finally mother and daughter are reunited.

And me? Well, I've just got the best wedding present ever. I've also got my hand back and it appears to be in working order, even if it is red and swollen.

I reckon Kensi and Julia probably need some time alone together, so Hetty and I beat a hasty withdrawal to the garden, leaving Kensi and Julia alone to conquer the memories and start to build a future together.

"Families. They can be such a blessing. And such a blessed nuisance too. Wouldn't you agree, Mr Deeks?"

"How about you ask me that in ten years time, Hetty?"

Because right now, I want to live in the moment. It's a beautiful day: the sun is shining and for once Monty hasn't dug a hole the size of a pumpkin right in the middle of the lawn. No, he's just lying there, dozing in the sunshine. And I'm going to marry the most amazing girl in the whole world and build a whole new family with her. So I don't want to think about anything except how damned lucky I am. Heck, I'm so happy I might even sing, just for the sheer joy of everything. Only Monty always starts acting in this strange way when I sing. He sort of cringes and then puts his paws over his head. I've no idea why. And it seems a pity to disturb him, so for once I really do hold my tongue and just sit down with Hetty and think about how lucky I am.

Life is sweet. Life is pretty damned near perfect, if you really want to know. Now, all I have to do before the wedding is learn how to dance so that a) I don't make a complete fool of myself and b) rip Kensi's dress to shreds, then I reckon we've pretty much got it made. Everything else can take care of itself. But one thing is non-negotiable: I'm not shaving. No way. Even I have my limits.


End file.
